


The Faces Unknown

by Heatherlly



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 58
Words: 30,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heatherlly/pseuds/Heatherlly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One chapter for every episode of Merlin, captured from the perspective of a variety of unknown characters who make their home within the land of Albion. No names, no faces, only the stories that have not yet been told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dragon's Call

#  **The Dragon's Call**

* * *

**Episode:** The Dragon's Call  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

"How about three? Right, three of those nice juicy apples."

The young woman quietly placed the fruit in a sack and held it out to the man, avoiding his eyes in the hope that he wouldn't turn out to be one of those customers who liked to linger and chat after making their purchase. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy socializing – she would've welcomed the company on any other day, a pleasant respite to break up the monotonous hours spent selling produce while dreaming of a more exciting life. 

But today was different. Today was an execution day.

"Quite a show earlier, wasn't it?" the man remarked in a cheerful voice.

 _Common butchery is more like it,_ she thought bitterly, even as she nodded with a wan smile.

Oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm, he cast a long look at the bloodstained platform in the distance. "Least this one went to his death with dignity, no crying or blubbering like some of the others. Didn't even soil his britches!"

 _Go away,_ her mind pleaded in silent distress. _Please, just go away._

Instead, the man stayed right where he was, reliving every gory detail of the beheading of Tom Collins as if it had been some sumptuous feast he'd been privileged enough to enjoy. And even though she tried to play along as she always did, fighting her grief and revulsion so she might appear as unaffected as any other citizen of Camelot, she couldn't help but flinch as she remembered another man who'd met the same miserable fate only two weeks before. 

He hadn't cried out either. No, he'd been brave and strong, refusing to cower in the face of tyranny even as they'd shoved his head on the block and brought the axe down amidst the heartless jeering of the gathered crowd. He'd been the one she hadn't been able to avert her eyes from, the terrible severing of bone and breath and blood that had brought a brutal end to a lifetime spent turning away or hiding indoors, anything to avoid the horrifying realities that were happening around her.

But now she knew the truth. It was too late... refusing to watch wouldn't shelter her anymore.

Jostled by her sudden movement, a single apple fell from its overflowing basket and hit the ground with a sickening thud, rolling through the dirt just like...

The woman fell to her knees, no longer caring whether the world bore witness to her grief or what the consequences of her actions might be. If it was treason to feel, to love, to grieve for each and every life that was cruelly snatched away in this deplorable war on magic, then so be it.

"You all right?"

The man visibly cringed as she raised her head to look up at him with a world of anguish in her eyes – felt on behalf of those she didn't know and didn't _need_ to know in order to experience their suffering as deeply as her own. 

"Get away from my cart," she snarled. "And take your apples with you."


	2. Valiant

#  **Valiant**

* * *

**Episode:** Valiant  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

Valiant. It was a word meant to define honor, courage, determination. 

Indeed, in the beginning, the starry eyed young woman had wanted to believe that the man who bore the name possessed all these qualities... the most noble of hearts to match the handsomest face she'd ever seen.

Had she been older, perhaps wiser, maybe she would've given more thought to that old adage "too good to be true." But when he'd stood there upon her father's threshold, his lips quirked in just the hint of a smile as he'd brushed them ever so gently across the back of her hand, all she'd known was that he was a godsend, a savior, freedom from the miserable union she'd been certain would be arranged for her with some stinking old codger with only a title or massive amounts of wealth to recommend him.

Perhaps for the first time ever, she'd thought of kisses, of flowers and sweetly whispered promises, and for even the slightest possibility that it might be hers, she'd given the handsome young Valiant her heart. She'd never hesitated, not even when in an unaccustomed act of generosity, her father had offered to delay the wedding in order to allow the couple to get to know one another. No, she'd stood before the priest the very next week, trussed up in her mother's lace and a tremulous smile, convinced that the man beside her would cherish her for the rest of their lives.

It was only after the wedding that the truth was revealed, slowly, painfully, in sickening little lurches that had her constantly on edge just waiting for the axe to fall all over again. The first time those lips, those beautiful lips, had curled into a mocking sneer... the first night that velvety voice that had only ever whispered words of love had risen in anger, just before the hand that had once clasped hers so sweetly had slammed into her jaw.

Everything after that had been a blur of disappointment – her dowry squandered on gambling debts, or used to pay for the other women Valiant never troubled to hide from her notice. And as the months passed, she drew in on herself, becoming something hard, cold, and unyielding, determined he wouldn't break her before she saw him broken. She was a block of ice as she stood in the stands and watched the tournament that was taking place in the fair city of Camelot... the one he swore he would win, the prize he was willing to lie, steal, cheat, and kill to get his hands on.

She melted when he fell beneath the prince's sword, as if she were a frozen lake that simply couldn't withstand the relentless benediction of the early spring sunshine. Melted, and clasped the slight bulge of her abdomen, beyond any ability to grieve for the former embodiment of all her hopes and dreams, nor the monster he'd become. The baby... oh, how she'd feared for the fate of her unborn child, formed from the clandestine love between herself and another man she would've never imagined as her true savior... plain rather than handsome, modest rather than extravagant, common rather than titled. He was the one who'd taught her what it truly meant to be "valiant." 

It wasn't to be found in a pleasing face or a misplaced name.   
No, it came from the heart… a heart that she was finally free to claim for her own.


	3. The Mark of Nimueh

#  **The Mark of Nimueh**

* * *

**Episode:** The Mark of Nimueh  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

It should have been more difficult, sneaking into the bowels of the fortress in the dead of night. At least one of the guards should've cried out, "Halt! What business do you have down here?"

But they didn't say a word as he passed their way, the sleepy sentinels who counted him as one of their own. They only nodded and smiled, seeming not to notice the sweat beading his brow or the lower lip he nibbled to the point where he tasted the salty warmth of his own blood.

It should've been a far greater challenge to bypass them all, to reach that forbidden iron door behind which lay the legacy of a thousand shattered lives. Spellbooks and amulets, crystals and enchanted ornaments... they should've been dragging him away to a prison cell the minute he thrust the key into the tiny crevice, decrying him as a traitor before he was even given the opportunity to push the door open and slip inside.

But all was silent as he did just that, his eyes widening in awe as they passed over the heaping piles of glittering contraband that filled the room. Only a moment... a heartbeat and a breath to marvel over the wonders laid out before him, and then the briefest pause as the memory of an innocent young serving girl prompted an onslaught of questions that he'd never allowed himself to contemplate before that moment.

Could magic, those elusive powers which were capable of bringing all the splendor before him into existence, truly be evil? Were all sorcerers corrupted... or had a few who'd misused their gifts caused the rest to be condemned to a fate they didn't deserve? That girl in the yellow dress, the soul of kindness for all the years he'd known her... could she really be guilty of the terrible crime of which she'd been accused?

And then he remembered himself, passing over a mound of glittering jewels in shades and hues he'd never seen before in order to reach the one thing, the _only_ thing, that could've inspired the most loyal of Camelot's guards to rebel against a lifetime of unquestioning service to his king.

The poultice hummed in his pocket like some sentient being, so vibrant and alive within his tightly clutched fist that he had to wonder that the others didn't sense it as he passed their way again. And yet there were only casual calls of, "See you on the morrow!" and "Give your girls my best!" echoing in his head as he stumbled out into the courtyard and made his way home.

There was terror in his wife's eyes as he withdrew the shimmering object, a gasp and a protest that were both silenced by a distracted kiss. She spoke not a word after that, only clung to his arm as he stepped over to the bed, his eyes closing in relief upon the sight of the shallow rise and fall of a pair of tiny chests.

It wasn't too late. Not yet.

He slipped it beneath their pillow then, the clumsy little talisman that stood as his only weapon against the certain death of his beloved daughters. And as he stared down into the identical pair of drawn, gray faces, envisioning them rosy-cheeked and full of laughter once more, he couldn't bring himself to fear the consequences of his actions. Let them string him up on the morrow, brand him a traitor and leave him to die in infamy. For if magic was capable of saving two such innocent lives, he would gladly give his own to defend it.

And so as the sun rose over the horizon, its gentle hues of pink and gold infusing a pair of pallid complexions with the glow of good health, a heart's alliance shifted forever. What the anxious young father had done the previous night would never be discovered, nor would the increasing frequency of escapes by those who'd been accused of sorcery ever be traced back to him.

But forever after, deep within the heart of Camelot's seemingly impenetrable fortress, magic had earned itself a staunch ally.


	4. The Poisoned Chalice

#  **The Poisoned Chalice**

* * *

**Episode:** The Poisoned Chalice  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T  
 **Author's Note:** In honor of Nimueh's lovers.

* * *

Her eyes would remind him of cornflowers, bluebells, or perhaps a summer sky, so brilliantly blue and mesmerizing that he'd find himself incapable of forming a coherent sentence whenever he was in her presence. She'd never seem to mind, however – those lush lips would curve into a gentle smile before parting to bestow some compliment he'd be certain he'd done nothing to deserve.

She'd take him to her bed then, this servant or squire or merchant's son, forever young and handsome as she preferred. And for a short time she'd love him, or at least as far as she was capable of loving anyone in the aftermath of a lifetime filled with grief. She'd be everything he'd ever dreamed of and then some, to soothe her own guilt over how it must end, and in part because she was lonely, too, desperate for even the barest facsimile of a world where she wasn't doomed to wander alone for the rest of her days.

For that brief interlude, they might even be happy… until the day arrived when he inadvertently got a little too close, perhaps learned some secret that was not his right to know. That would be the day she'd have no choice but to dispose of him, else risk the exposure of a revenge that was twenty years in the making. For no matter how sweet he might be, how tender and charming and devoted, her determination to see Uther Pendragon fall would always be more important than the needs of her heart.

She'd kill him then, with a grim faced expression that betrayed none of her true feelings. But he'd never know the truth, nor recognize her as his murderer even as he drew his final breath.

He'd never know because even in this terrible act, the sorceress was not entirely devoid of mercy. Heavy, languid, she'd coax him into his final rest with a smile on his lips and a kiss upon his brow... deeper, deeper into the yawning darkness, with no trace of fear or pain to sully his final glimpse of her beautiful blue eyes.

And if he were aware of his own demise at all, it might occur to him that there were certainly worse ways to die.


	5. Lancelot

#  **Lancelot**

* * *

**Episode:** Lancelot  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

"Thank you," the boy said quietly. "For everything."

There were so many words that could've been spoken in that moment, a whirlwind of feelings and memories struggling to define just how the old cobbler felt about the orphaned youth who'd shared his home for the better part of a decade. He could've told Lancelot how proud he was of the way he'd turned out – brave, honorable, and kind beyond all expectation. Perhaps he could've expressed his gratitude in return for the years of comfort given to a lonely old soul who knew exactly how it felt to be alone in the world.

If he were another man, far more bold and less cognizant of his own shortcomings, he might have even admitted that he really did love the boy, which would've been followed by a warm embrace. Yes, that certainly would've been better than the awkward pat on the back he managed in the end. 

"Just don't get yourself killed," he said, already faulty words that came out far more gruffly than he'd intended.

Nonetheless, the boy gave him a genuine smile in response, and he could only hope it meant that all the things left unspoken were somehow understood. He'd done his best over the years, making sure young Lancelot was well provided for in all the ways he could manage – good food and reliable shelter, the warmest clothing he could afford even if it meant going without himself. But as for the rest… what had he ever known about raising a child, especially one who'd lost so much at such a tender age?

Perhaps it might have been different if Lancelot had been more outspoken, seeking out the closeness and affection the old cobbler had never quite known how to offer. Certainly if he'd been more clear about his needs, whatever he'd required would've been given without reservation. But making demands had never been in the boy's nature, and so the years had slipped by with what could only be described as a companionable distance between them.

Had he done enough? He imagined that question would plague him for the rest of his days as he watched Lancelot set off on the path that would carry him to the distant city of Camelot. How he wished he'd been able to offer more for the journey than just a handful of silver, a bit of food, and a small satchel of homespun clothing. How could that possibly be sufficient for someone who intended to make his home among those who were accustomed to wealth and privilege beyond all imagining? Would he be cast out as soon as he arrived, doomed to struggle alone as he sought other means for survival? 

"Should've done more," the old man fretted to himself as the boy's silhouette grew smaller and smaller against the rising sun. "Should've made him take up a trade skill or apprenticed him out to become a farmer. Would've made a good farmer… never seen anyone willing to work harder. Always did whatever was asked of him without a word of complaint."

But deep down, he knew why he'd never urged Lancelot to do anything aside from pursuing the knighthood he'd wanted so badly, even if setting him on his way with only a slightly rusty sword in his hand was terrifying. It was the quiet determination that was forever present in those soft brown eyes, the grace with which the boy wielded his weapon when he thought no one else was watching. Most of all, it was in the proud tilt of his chin, an unspoken sense of purpose that could only exist in a man who knew exactly who he was and what he was meant to do with his life.

Simply put, Lancelot had been born to fulfill a greater destiny than life as a field worker or blacksmith. There was no getting around that, no matter how tempting it might've been to encourage him on a path that would've kept him close at hand for the rest of his days. 

Yes… sending him off into the unknown was unquestionably the most difficult thing the old man had ever had to do, but in the end, it was the right one.

And so he cast the last of his reservations away, focusing instead on the deep melancholy that came with being parted from the only person who'd ever truly mattered to him. Lancelot would do just fine on his own; he was too strong, too brave, too set upon his course to believe otherwise. 

Learning to get by without him, however, would be another matter entirely.

"Farewell…" came a final whisper, as the tiny speck that was Lancelot finally disappeared against the backdrop of a bright summer sky. "Son."


	6. A Remedy to Cure All Ills

#  **A Remedy to Cure All Ills**

* * *

**Episode:** A Remedy to Cure All Ills  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

The line between nobles and commoners was nothing more than an illusion, something she'd learned the hard way after having lived as both. Once the fancy clothes were stripped away, titles were disposed of, and powerful alliances fell to the wayside, what was left? Just a person like any other, not defined by bloodlines, only how she chose to occupy her time.

Well, she hadn't _chosen_ the life of a humble scullery maid, hadn't wanted to become one of the anonymous servants she'd once looked upon with no small amount of contempt. These days, it was hard to imagine there'd ever been a time when she'd truly thought she was above the people who'd worked for her, of higher quality simply by right of birth. She'd bought into that lie right up until the day she'd discovered that scrubbing floors made her no less filthy than anyone else who'd been unfortunate enough to have been assigned the task, and that cleaning fish made her stink every bit as much as those she'd formerly turned her nose up at in disgust.

How much she wished she could go back and do things differently, offer smiles and kind words rather than insults and haughty glares. But it was much too late for that now, of course; her only consolation was that the impoverished serving maid she'd become was somehow far less shameful in her eyes than the self absorbed noblewoman she'd once been. It wasn't good to waste too much time on regret, after all, particularly when lamenting her fate would do nothing to change it. She was chained to this life now, obligated to work off a debt that would never be fully repaid.

It had started with a strange ailment, the day her strong, seemingly invincible father had begun to waste away before her eyes. And even now, it remained a mystery how the physician had found them, a soft-spoken man with red hair and the most hideous scars on his face. But none of that had mattered at the time, not when he'd managed to accomplish what had seemed like the impossible. A single dose of thick green liquid and her father had been sitting up in bed, looking like he'd never even been ill despite the fact that he hadn't had the strength to walk in three days.

"One hundred gold pieces," the physician had said, and although it had been an exorbitant sum, she'd handed it over gladly. The treatment was worth any price that was requested and much more besides, or so she'd thought at the time.

How naive she'd been.

The following day, she'd awoken to find her father burning with fever all over again, unable to even lift his head as she'd clutched his clammy hand and wept at his bedside. Only then had the physician told her the truth of it, that the medicine would have to be administered every morning to prevent certain death. One hundred gold per day was the price she'd agreed to, sincerely believing she had little choice in the matter. Their savings were depleted in the first month, all possessions of value sold by the second. The generosity of friends kept them going for a while after that, but soon even those resources had been exhausted, doors slammed in her face everywhere she'd turned. And the last time she'd ever seen Edwin Muirden was the day she'd told him there was no money left.

It had all been a lie… she'd discovered that when her father had slowly recovered in the aftermath of Edwin's disappearance with the help of nothing more than chicken soup and ordinary herbs. Her suspicions had been confirmed by the healer who'd diagnosed the affliction as a bad fever, alternately suppressed and falsely extended by the powers of magic.

Unfortunately, knowing that had changed nothing. They'd been destitute, even losing their home when the debt collectors had started calling. And then there'd been little choice – she'd had to accept the only position available for a woman with no experience, no training, no special skills to speak of, working as a scullery maid in a palace where she would've once been welcomed as an honored guest. So much for leading a privileged life – all her numerous lessons on proper etiquette and courtly graces counted for nothing in the real world.

And so it was with a great deal of shock, anger, and no small amount of fear when she trudged out of the kitchens, only to come face to face with the man who'd effectively ruined her life. He didn't recognize her – just like the fool she'd once been, he clearly didn't know how to see beyond outward appearances. He just brushed past her, headed straight in the direction of the Lady Morgana's chambers.

Leaning down, she picked up the armload of soiled dishtowels she'd dropped, silently praying that this time, Edwin would be exposed for the monster he was before it was too late. That was the best she could do… after all, it wasn't as if anyone would listen to a servant.


	7. The Gates of Avalon

#  **The Gates of Avalon**

* * *

**Episode:** The Gates of Avalon  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

To be a guard of Camelot was to exercise a great deal of discretion at all times. One did not disclose the countless secrets he overheard within the castle walls, nor did he speak of the numerous flaws and failures of those who ruled over the kingdom. Most of all, he never, _ever_ criticized the leaders he served.

If he was to keep his job (and perhaps even his head), he learned very quickly to be as unobtrusive as possible, to turn a blind eye to any number of shocking occurrences and pretend as if he wasn't listening to the various dramas unfolding all around him. It wasn't only his duty, after all – it was a question of basic survival.

But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy his own quiet amusements when he was off-duty, far removed from the scrutiny of others. And so one guard in particular waited until he arrived home, safe within a tiny house that was tucked away behind the apothecary's shop, to react to that day's events. Barring the door behind him, he immediately burst into a fit of gleeful laughter.

Watching the mighty Uther Pendragon, paranoid beyond all reason at even the slightest suggestion of sorcery, openly welcoming two travelers with what could only be magical staffs clutched tightly in their hands? Talk about missing the obvious!

"Idiot," he chuckled to himself as he undressed and climbed into bed. "This one should be interesting to watch."


	8. The Beginning of the End

#  **The Beginning of the End**

* * *

**Episode:** The Beginning of the End  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

It was a terrible thing to wish ill fortune on a child.

The Druid tried to remember that, to remind himself that young Mordred had never raised a hand against himself or anyone else. He was just a boy, innocent like any other, dependent on the wisdom of his elders to guide him along the path to a worthy destiny. There was no evil in him, only sweet smiles and soft, childish laughter, guileless curiosity and a heart that was obviously filled with kindness.

So why was he standing out here alone in the forest, rather than taking part in the prayers and rituals that pleaded for Mordred's safe return? Why did the thought that it might already be too late make him feel relieved rather than sorrowful as it should have?

Deep down, he knew the answer. It was those eyes… ice blue, piercing straight through to a man's soul and far beyond. Those were not the eyes of a child, more like a force of nature – powerful, magnificent, terrible. There was a promise within them, a silent vow that whatever future lay ahead for the boy, it certainly wouldn't be peaceful, or temperate. There'd be no place for him among the Druids, those who kept to the shadows, forever believing that quiet survival was far more valuable than the brashness of momentary glory.

Mordred would never understand that, of that he was certain. There was a restlessness in those eyes, a silent demand for so much more than he was given, although he'd never commit the breach of courtesy required to speak of these feelings aloud. 

More than anything, those eyes _wanted_ … and wanting was dangerous.

The following night, the Druid tried to smile as the boy joined their ranks once more, escorted by Prince Arthur himself, of all people. But he knew the truth – even if there was no solid reasoning to back up his suspicions just yet, this was far from being the happy conclusion it appeared to be.


	9. Excalibur

#  **Excalibur**

* * *

**Episode:** Excalibur  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

"Are you out of your mind?!"

"Sister…" The young knight held his hands out in a placating gesture. "You knew that when I tried out for the knighthood, I'd be obligated to…"

"Risk your life in the protection of the kingdom," she snapped, tucking a lock of light brown hair behind her ear as she glared up at her brother. "Yes, and I accepted that. But this is hardly the same thing! This is a matter of… of…"

"Honor," Sir Owain said quietly.

"Pride! Foolish pride! You're barely more than a recruit, and you've never seen anything close to real combat. How could you just…? Please, Owain, go to Prince Arthur and withdraw the challenge. It's not worth putting yourself in danger just to…"

"You know I can't do that. The code…"

" _Damn the code!_ Go to the king himself if you must – tell him it was a momentary lapse in judgment. Tell him you were drunk when you picked up the gauntlet! I don't care what it takes. Just…"

It was a losing battle. She knew that even before her brother shook his head with a sad smile, then turned and walked away. It wasn't the first time she'd lived through a scene like this, after all… she'd been a girl herself, just 12 years old, when she'd watched her mother beg their father not to participate in a jousting tournament. There had been every reason to sit it out – general lack of skill, a shoulder wound that hadn't fully healed, not to mention two young children and a wife who'd been heavy with a third.

But he'd insisted on taking part anyway, blathering on and on about honor and duty and proving his worth. In the end, all he'd proven was his own mortality.

Of course, Owain wouldn't remember that… not the truth of it. He'd been only six years old at the time, in the keeping of his father's companions during the weeks that had followed the unfortunate joust. And of course, those well-meaning knights had filled his little head with tales of his father's unfailing bravery, his matchless courage, along with the promise that Owain himself would grow up to be just like him.

Damned if they hadn't been right.

But he hadn't seen what his sister had witnessed. No, he hadn't sat at their mother's bedside when she'd gone into labor upon hearing the tragic news, crying out in anguish not only in response to the pains shuddering through her body, but also for the beloved husband who'd been beyond her reach forever. Owain hadn't been there nearly two days later when their baby brother had finally slipped into the midwife's waiting hands, just as the woman who'd given birth to him had fallen limp against the pillows, never to rise again.

There was a price to be paid for every risk a men chose to take – fear, dread, an awful feeling of powerlessness in being the one who was forced to stand aside and watch. It would've been bearable in cases where it was unavoidable – an invading army, a threat to the kingdom? But for no other reason than to allow a man to bolster his pride, as ill-prepared as he might be to take on whatever challenge he insisted he must face? No, she couldn't stand by and watch it happen all over again.

And yet, she had no choice. That was what men inflicted upon the women who loved them when they chose to take part in these acts of recklessness. She had no option but to report to the tournament grounds the next morning, no alternative to the grief stricken scream that emerged from her throat when the blade was driven into her brother's chest.

But there was one thing she could still change, the fate of the 10-year-old boy she kept close to her side as she stayed just long enough to make arrangements for Owain's burial. Refusing all offers from the fallen knight's companions to take temporary charge of or even squire the boy, she packed up their possessions and rode beyond the city gates, never to return.

Farmer or blacksmith, cobbler or mason… it didn't matter what her youngest brother chose to do with his future, as long as he was far removed from the temptation of sacrificing his life for no good reason as his father and Owain had done. No, he'd have a peaceful life, taking on a proper trade in some remote village where he'd also have a home and family when the time came.

This was her last chance, a single life she might be able to salvage before it was too late.  
She'd be damned if she was going to throw it away.


	10. The Moment of Truth

#  **The Moment of Truth**

* * *

**Episode:** The Moment of Truth  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

Sensible or not, she envied the women who were being instructed by Prince Arthur, preparing to do battle with a horde of bloodthirsty bandits in the village below. It didn't matter that they were in mortal peril, likely terrified out of their minds at the moment. No, the threat of danger seemed insignificant next to the privilege of being allowed to take up arms, of being given some measure of control over the fates of themselves and their loved ones.

She would've been proud to stand beside them, ready to defend her home with grim determination in her eyes and a weapon in her hands. While she knew nothing of combat, she was young and strong from her work in the fields – surely she would've been capable of putting up one hell of a fight before allowing Kanen and his men to get the better of her.

But rather than having the opportunity to find out, she was sequestered in these accursed caves with the children and old folks, gritting her teeth through another contraction as she railed at her own helplessness. She was well away from the others, a seemingly harsh but necessary precaution she'd insisted on when the first pains of labor had come upon her. Sheltered they might be, but still within hearing distance; she hated the thought that she might cry out and risk the exposure of them all.

The older women had come to check on her frequently at first, but as the hours had passed and her refusals for help had become more vehement, they'd reluctantly agreed to stay away upon the promise that she'd call when she needed them.

Of course, she had no intention of doing so.

As strange as it seemed, it was easier to endure her suffering alone. While this was the first child she had borne herself, she'd attended enough births to know what to expect, even if the pain was a great deal worse than she'd anticipated. Besides, it had become something of a personal conviction – if the villagers could be brave enough to stand against the menace they were facing, then she could certainly handle something as natural as childbirth on her own. It was silly, perhaps, but it was the only battle she was able to fight, the lone way through which she could prove her own courage.

It was as if her body was mimicking the scene taking place below. There had been the early stages, the much more mild contractions that had given her the chance to rest in between and the illusion that all would be well, that surely it wouldn't be so bad. That had been the waiting stage, torn between hoping for the best and fearing the worst just as the villagers must have been doing as they'd prepared for the onslaught to come.

But now the pains were coming fast and hard, her body sweating and straining in the darkness as the anguish she refused to give voice to came to her ears in distant echoes – screams of terror, cries of pain, howls of fury. She felt them all, even as she allowed herself nothing more than a succession of low moans and quiet grunts  as she struggled to expel the child from her womb. The battle was right there inside her, the faint clanging of steel upon steel a reflection of the lingering strength in her own exhausted muscles as she bore down again and again, salty tears wetting her face and a plea for mercy left unspoken as she closed her eyes and smelled her own blood.

Yes, she could bear this alone, because in truth, she wasn't alone at all. Hers was not the only blood that would be spilled this day, and they were the only ones she needed beside her… not the wizened old women who waited up here in safety, but the fighters below to whom she silently willed some measure of her own courage, even as she drew upon theirs. It was an intrinsic connection she couldn't begin to understand, but felt all the same… if she managed to endure the excruciating process of giving birth, then Ealdor itself would mirror her own triumph and survive to see another day.

She knew the fight was over through the only scream she permitted herself to unleash, a high-pitched wail of pure suffering that ended with a gasp of relief as she grabbed her knees and pulled herself forward to stare down in wonder at the tiny infant that lay between her trembling thighs.

And just as he opened his mouth to let loose a lusty cry, she knew the battle had been won.

Cutting the cord with a dagger that would've served quite a different purpose if she hadn't been heavy with child when the attacks had come, she took her baby in her arms and cradled him against her heaving chest. The name she bestowed upon him didn't require a second thought, for it was the epitome of hope and courage, of defying even the most insurmountable odds for a just and worthy cause.

"Arthur," she whispered in the darkness, placing the most gentle of kisses to his tiny cheek.


	11. The Labyrinth of Gedref

#  **The Labyrinth of Gedref**

* * *

**Episode:** The Labyrinth of Gedref  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

In the beginning, the man had been amused to discover his young wife's peculiar habit. Not only did she keep the pantry full to bursting with supplies, but spare foodstuffs were all over their tiny home – sacks of grain piled high in the corner or shoved under the bed, strings of dried fruits and vegetables hanging from the rafters. There were barrels of fresh water that she faithfully replenished each week, and crates stuffed with enough dried meat to feed half of Camelot's army, or so it seemed.

But what had once been endearing had quickly become a nuisance… especially when his meager pay was spent on food they didn't need and would most likely never use.

"Why do you do this?" he'd asked her on countless occasions.

In response, he only ever received a placid smile, along with an observation of, "You never know what's going to happen."

It seemed like such a waste; month after month, she distributed the older supplies among the poor and disadvantaged, putting a dent in his pocketbook whenever she replaced them. He didn't mind the charity, but he was far from being a rich man. How could he build a better life for them, provide for the children they both wanted to have, if she kept squandering all of their money?

Unfortunately, he was given little choice in the matter. Any attempt to curb her nonsensical need to stockpile was met with a great deal of distress on her part, lower lip trembling and those cornflower blue eyes brimming over with tears. He couldn't stand to see her cry, no matter the cost to himself, so there was nothing to do but live with it.

And then the day came when the famine struck. The crops rotted in the fields, fruits and vegetables were spoiled before they could be plucked from the vine, and even the wells yielded nothing but sand rather than the water the city so desperately needed. During those awful days of deprivation, when even a prince had nothing to consume but rats, there was one man in Camelot who feasted quite contentedly on cured venison, hard cheese, and dried apples, washed down by fresh spring water from a barrel he'd once cursed at for taking up so much space.

Following that, he never complained about his wife's strange habit again. True, his money was spent as quickly as it was earned, but at least they'd always be well fed.


	12. To Kill the King

#  **To Kill the King**

* * *

**Episode:** To Kill the King  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

"Damn it," the girl cursed under her breath, unwinding the linen strip and then wrapping it even more tightly around her chest. Was it her imagination, or had they grown overnight?

It wasn't that she was ashamed of her swiftly developing figure. No, under any other circumstances, she might have taken pride in breasts that had become round and full, complemented by a slender waist and gently flaring hips. Unfortunately, these things were nothing more than an inconvenience for an impoverished soul who only owned one dress, a pitiful, threadbare thing that was better suited to the body of the child she'd been, not the woman she was soon to become.

Bound so tightly now that the rough fabric cut into her tender skin, she struggled into the shapeless rag… only to be confronted with a terrible ripping noise as it split from collar to navel.

And with that, she allowed the one thing she'd managed to hold at bay for years. Collapsing on the straw pallet that served as her bed, she burst into tears, burying her face in her hands to muffle the sound of her helpless sobs. There was no fixing it now – years of careful mending and countless patches had given the garment a much longer lifespan, but nothing could last forever. That was one of many harsh lessons she'd learned at far too young an age.

"You all right in there?" The voice was faint through the thin door, already drained and weary even though the day had just begun.

"Yes, Mother!" she called back hastily, scrubbing at her eyes as she glanced around for some solution to her seemingly impossible dilemma. And there it was – the ragged shawl she shared with her sisters on only the coldest of winter days. No longer caring how absurd she might look as long as she was covered, she draped it over her front, tying it securely at the back of her neck.

It was a dismal scene that met her eyes as she emerged into the main room. Five children sat huddled around the hearth, arms and legs that were much too skinny protruding from tattered clothing that was far too small. Their mother was lying on a narrow bed in the corner, pale as a ghost aside from the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Of course, the girl had expected nothing different – this had been her reality for the past three years, ever since her father had passed away and her mother, body worn down from too many difficult births, had never recovered from the last.

All the same, the children turned to her with brilliant smiles. She was their strength, their hope, the only barrier standing between them and starvation, even if she was only 15 years old. Just like every other morning, she'd report to the palace and perform her duties as scullery maid, using every last copper of her meager pay to put food on the table. It wasn't much – supplies that would've been sufficient for two or three people often stretched to feed seven, but they managed to survive.

For all that they made the best of it, however, she wished she could give them so much more.

Oddly on the heels of that thought, she spied something unusual – a small brown package that was lying on the rickety table. "What's that?"

"Dropped it off for you this morning."

"Who?"

Her mother shifted onto her side, letting out a soft groan of discomfort. "Pretty thing, dark curls. Don't know her name."

Intrigued, the girl untied the strings that held it together, letting out a gasp of shock as she ran her fingers over the fine cotton fabric. "Who? I mean, how… wait, there's a note here…"

 _For reasons I cannot explain,_ she read slowly, clutching the gown to her chest like some precious treasure. _I can no longer bear to look upon this dress. I hope it brings you better luck._

Five minutes later, she was back in the other room, unwinding the cruel binding and casting it away before slipping the lovely garment over her head. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt almost… pretty. Indeed, with her face freshly scrubbed and hair meticulously combed, she was like a different girl when she emerged to face the world once more.

While the dress itself was an ordinary thing, the pleasant smile on her lips and an extra spring in her step led to opportunities she might've never imagined for herself. Just a simple boost of confidence was all it took – two months later, she was a proper lady's maid, with a salary that was enough to purchase ample food and new clothing for herself and her kin. Soon enough, the children were plump with rosy cheeks, and while her mother would never regain her former strength, she improved to the point where she was able to take care of basic household duties, lightening the burden on her overworked daughter.

The girl wouldn't be wearing red and blue cotton when she accepted the proposal of a handsome young soldier just a few years later. No, she'd be dressed in soft green wool, tailored to fit her lovely figure to perfection. But she'd think back to that dress, a gift from a stranger whose name she'd never known. And then she'd smile upon the realization that that had been the moment her life had truly begun.

Lucky indeed…


	13. Le Morte d'Arthur

#  **Le Morte d'Arthur**

* * *

**Episode:** Le Morte d'Arthur  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

The figure was slumped on the side of the road, a helpless, pitiful thing that feebly lifted its head as he approached.

Drawing closer, he realized it was a woman who was gazing up at him with an expression full of quiet suffering. Her eyes conveyed what seemed like a lifetime of weariness, set in a face that was ravaged by the symptoms of what appeared to be a terrible disease.

"Please," she whispered in a faint voice, struggling to rise before falling heavily to the ground again. "Please…"

Logic told him that the smartest thing to do would be to ride away. This woman was violently ill; there was no way of knowing if she was contagious or not, and he had a wife and children to think about. But in the end, it was their faces he saw as he jumped down from the wagon and lifted the frail body in his arms, settling her as comfortably as possible among the bales of wool. After all, it was exactly what he hoped someone would do if one of his own loved ones ever found themselves in such an awful predicament.

"Please," she murmured again, so soft he could barely hear her.

But he was already in motion, having felt the fever that burned so hot it seemed to scorch him through the heavy clothing she wore. She made no move to resist as he stripped away the outer layers, lifting a canteen to her lips for a long moment before wetting the corner of her shawl and bathing her parched skin with cool water.

"You'll be all right now," he told her, trying to sound gentle and soothing. "I don't know where you came from, but I'll take you to my wife, and…"

But before he could finish, she was already shaking her head, attempting to rise as if she meant to step down from the wagon and continue on her own. Oh no, that wouldn't do… he was invested in her fate now, and he'd be damned if he was going to let her die without at least giving her a fighting chance.

"I need to reach my son. I have to see Merlin."

He frowned, holding out an arm to prevent her escape. "Wait a minute, please. Where is he?"

"Camelot," she rasped out. "He lives in the quarters of the Court Physician."

And with that, the man's face broke into a wide smile. "As it so happens, that's exactly where I'm going. To Camelot, I mean, not the palace itself. Will you permit me to take you there?"

Falling back against the bales of wool with an audible sigh of relief, the woman slept through the rest of their journey. That was fortunate – when his wagon became mired in a thick patch of mud just beyond the city gates, she'd regained enough strength to make it the rest of the way by herself.

For months, the wool merchant would wonder what had become of the deathly ill woman who'd accepted his mercy. Had she succumbed to what had seemed like the inevitable, at least given the comfort of seeing her son one last time? Or by some miracle he couldn't begin to fathom, had she managed to survive?

That question was finally answered with a small roll of parchment that was delivered to his house one balmy summer night. The message contained within was simple and to the point, but would leave him smiling for days to come.

_I must apologize for never asking your name, but thank you for saving my life. If there's ever a way I might be able to repay your kindness, please don't hesitate to let me know. I can be found in the village of Ealdor._

_Sincerely, Hunith_


	14. The Curse of Cornelius Sigan

#  **The Curse of Cornelius Sigan**

* * *

**Episode:** The Curse of Cornelius Sigan  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** M

* * *

"Where are you going this time, Cedric?"

"Camelot."

"And how long will you be gone?"

He sat down on the side of the bed, bending over to remove his shoes. "Perhaps a fortnight. I can't be sure."

"All right," she said softly, knowing there was no point in asking the most obvious question of all. He'd never tell her the purpose behind the journey; if this was like all the others, he'd simply return with a smile on his face and his pockets full of gold. And then they'd live in luxury for a short time… until the money ran out and the hunger in his eyes returned.

She knew that look only too well, a fierce yearning that was impossible to miss as he made quick work of shedding his trousers, then settled himself between her thighs. Taking him inside her without protest, she pressed her face against the side of his neck to avoid the intensity in that stare.

Had there been a time when it had only existed for her? It didn't matter – those days were well and truly behind them, the illusion that she was the reason for his passion, not simply a convenient outlet for it, long ago shattered. No, she knew better now… his frenzied thrusting wasn't driven by thoughts of love for the woman who lay beneath him, placid and silent, but by fantasies of wealth and power, subterfuge and greed.

It didn't take him long – with one ragged shout, he was over the edge, kissing her almost as an afterthought before flopping over on his back and letting his eyes drift closed.

When she awoke in the morning, he was already gone. That was hardly surprising – Cedric had never been one for goodbyes, sentimental or otherwise. If this was to be like all the other times, she'd simply accept his lack of sensitivity, then wait in solitude while plagued by the awful fear that this was to be the journey from which he'd never return.

And all for what? No, she couldn't do it. Not again.

It wasn't an uncertain future that prompted her to rise from the bed, hurrying into her dress in the chilly morning air. No, she only thought of the past as she gathered her possessions – clothing and other personal effects, along with a yellowed bundle of parchment she hadn't even thought about in years.

Those letters had been written by a man who no longer existed – well, a boy to be more accurate. Contained within were heartfelt declarations of affection, along with plans for another life entirely. Love, marriage, children… a would-be husband who'd promised to build their future through honest labor, not deception and thievery. In truth, she was still in love with that Cedric, a fact that had kept her bound to a stranger for years with the futile hope that the man she remembered would somehow return to her.

In the end, it had all been for nothing.

Slinging the satchel over her shoulder, the woman suddenly paused, releasing a heavy sigh as she bent down and withdrew the letters. There was a moment of indecision, tenderly running her fingers over the faded words with a sad smile on her lips. But then they were nothing but ashes, incinerated in the tiny fire she extinguished before glancing around the room for the last time. 

Yes, to have the life she wanted, there was no choice but to let go of the past. And as the last of her regrets melted away, replaced by a surprising amount of eagerness, she knew she was ready to face whatever the future might bring.

"Goodbye, Cedric," she whispered, closing the door behind her with a resounding thud.


	15. The Once and Future Queen

#  **The Once and Future Queen**

* * *

**Episode:** The Once and Future Queen  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** M

* * *

"Do you know anything about him?"

"Who?"

Rolling her eyes at her friend, the pretty courtier fiddled with her rich auburn curls. "Sir William of Deira, of course! He's quite handsome, isn't he?"

The raven haired beauty shifted in her seat, giving the mysterious knight a skeptical glance. "Never heard of him, but he looks rather simple to me. _Sir Leon_ , on the other hand…"

"Oh, forget about Sir Leon! You've had him how many times by now?"

"Seven. No, eight. I forgot about that romp in the stables."

"Well," the redhead said, her eyes still fixed on Sir William as he received accolades on the tournament grounds below. "It's good to try someone new every once in a while, you know. Besides, he _is_ a champion. Shouldn't he receive a proper reward?"

"Oh, all right then."

"Hey, if you don't want to…"

"I never said that. Just pointing out that he doesn't seem like the sharpest sword in the armory, if you know what I mean."

"Has that ever stopped us before?"

The women shared a knowing smirk as they rose to their feet, one smoothing her hands over the tight bodice of her blue silk gown while the other adjusted the rich red velvet she was wearing, each putting the swells of her breasts on more prominent display.

"Let's go."

Sir William was even easier than most, not putting up even a token resistance before allowing himself to be escorted away. They took him to a storage room inside the palace, stripping away his mail and tabard before pushing him onto his back to lay among the discarded sheets. One straddled his hips, taking him into herself with a throaty moan, while the other commandeered his hands to give her the pleasure she hungered for. It didn't last long, of course, but that was to be expected. And like most men, he quickly became aroused again when they focused their attentions on each other.

A second time and then a third… what the man lacked in stamina, he certainly made up for in enthusiasm. The games lasted for hours, at least up until the point where the women were too exhausted to continue, trudging off to their chambers with promises to do it again on the morrow.

In the end, they'd never know that the man they sent on his way, wearing a huge grin and walking with a swagger that was far beyond anything Prince Arthur had taught him, was nothing more than a simple farmer.


	16. The Nightmare Begins

#  **The Nightmare Begins**

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**Episode:** The Nightmare Begins  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

If there was one thing few people understood about the gift of foresight, it was that nothing was set in stone. True, the dreams had a way of showing the most likely outcome, but there was always room for an alternative, the chance to take a different path.

The old seer had tried to impart this knowledge upon many who shared his powers, but never had it seemed more important than when he glanced at the dark haired woman with the sweet smile, blindsided by visions of a future filled with hatred, treachery, bloodshed, and most of all, terrible, pervasive loneliness. How much he wanted to tell her that it didn't have to be that way… reassure her that there was still time to choose kindness over cruelty, compassion rather than bitterness.

Would she be like others he'd known throughout the course of his life, forever tormented by her dreams? Would she ever realize that it was nothing more than her own fear that led to them becoming a reality? Indeed, even he'd nearly been lost on countless occasions, before remembering that his own actions and reactions were still his to control.

That was why he'd decided to stay here rather than moving on to a safer location, even when he'd sensed his own demise long before it appeared in the form of Prince Arthur and the Knights of Camelot. Just to have a chance to share his wisdom, the slightest possibility he might be able to change the course of her future, had been worth this final sacrifice.

But in the end, there simply wasn't time. 

The soldiers came upon them before he ever reached her side, and then there was nothing to do but accept the arrow that embedded itself into his back, suffering in dignity through the slow agony that marked his final moments. Even then, he thought of her, devoting his fading consciousness to the hope that despite everything, she'd understand the truth and choose a better way.


	17. Lancelot and Guinevere

#  **Lancelot and Guinevere**

* * *

**Episode:** Lancelot and Guinevere  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

In truth, the woman was a stranger to him.

Everyone knew her name was Guinevere, of course, and that she worked as a maid for the Lady Morgana. More than that, there wasn't a person in Camelot who didn't know about that awful business that had happened with her father the year before. She nodded to him whenever they passed on the streets, which was how he knew she kept the same late hours as he did.

But had he ever spoken so much as a word to her? No, not that he could remember.

Even so, it was difficult not to feel like she was part of his life somehow. How could she be just another face in the crowd after seeing her for years beyond counting, having watched her grow up right before his eyes?

He didn't know where she'd been, or why she was dressed in a gown that was far too fine to belong to a simple maidservant. All that mattered as she came riding back into the city was that terrible sadness in her eyes, the last thing he wanted to see in a woman who'd already endured far too much sorrow for someone so young. There was no way he could inquire as to the cause of her grief, of course, but the desire to do something to alleviate it was so strong that he went racing back to his shop with one specific purpose in mind.

She'd never know who'd left the stunning arrangement of perfect white lilies on her doorstep, or that the elderly florist who watched from the shadows smiled when she did, comforted by the fact that just for a moment, she almost looked… happy.


	18. Beauty and the Beast

#  **Beauty and the Beast**

* * *

**Episode:** Beauty and the Beast (Parts 1  & 2)  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

He should've seen it coming.

Of course, everyone in the palace had learned how to deal with the besotted king, quick to avert their eyes as he gazed in adoration at the woman he'd married. Some had even witnessed a kiss or two here and there, perhaps a little groping when Uther had either assumed no one else was looking, or just hadn't cared one way or another. But out of all the guards, servants, and court officials, he was the only one who'd been unlucky enough to witness a scene that would be burned into his brain for the rest of his days.

The official reasoning he'd been given was that the king had found fault with his performance. Naturally, that was a lie – no one could scrub a floor, prepare hot baths, or launder the royal garments as well as he could. But of course, to point out the truth behind his loss of employment would be as good as a death sentence.

And so the man simply nodded in meek submission, accepting his unusually generous severance pay before turning his feet toward home. Yes, the heavy gold coins would be enough to get them by for quite some time… but what he couldn't figure out was how he was going to explain to his wife that he'd been sacked for walking into the Council Chamber, reporting for duty just at the unfortunate moment when the king had been making passionate and disturbingly enthusiastic love to a troll.


	19. The Witchfinder

#  **The Witchfinder**

* * *

**Episode:** The Witchfinder  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

"We just have to be patient," was what he always said when she told him she wanted to leave. "It won't be like this forever."

Perhaps he was right, but a promise of "someday" meant little when forced to live with the knowledge that at any moment, she could be condemned to death. Her husband didn't understand what it was like to live with magic – how could he? To him, the obvious solution was that she simply shouldn't use her powers.

"No one will ever know unless you show them, my love."

She tried to keep it to herself, of course. It had been ten years since she'd intentionally cast a spell, then only 14 years old, too young and foolish to consider the risk she'd been taking. But magic was an unpredictable thing, instinctual to the point where she wasn't even consciously aware of what she was doing at times. A pitcher knocked off the table, halted in midair, cooking fires already ignited before she realized there was no flint or tinder in her hands? No, magic wasn't a choice. It was a part of her.

Nonetheless, she'd stayed in Camelot to be with him, doing her best to swallow her fear and live a normal life. While there was a part of her he'd never understand, he was tender and patient, generous and kind, and she adored him with her whole heart. Indeed, even just a few years before, death itself had seemed preferable to a bleak existence without him at her side.

But of course, that had been before she'd become a mother.

Her final attempt was pointless; she knew that before she even spoke. And yet she pleaded with him anyway, if for no other reason than the regret she'd be forced to live with if she didn't. One more chance… a last effort to get through to him. 

"What if the Witchfinder discovers the truth? Do you want our child to grow up without a mother?"

"Of course not, dear, but that will never happen. Just lie low as you always do, and this will blow over soon enough."

"But how can we raise our son in such a dangerous place? He'll have magic, too, and it'll be years before he learns to control his powers."

Her husband shook his head, kissing her on the forehead before kneeling down to remove his boots. "You're worrying yourself over nothing. There's been no sign that he isn't a perfectly ordinary boy."

"I just have a feeling. I can't explain it, but I know. In my heart, I'm certain of it."

"That's only your fear talking, my love, nothing more. You know we can't leave Camelot. Everything we have is here… our home, my shop, our family and friends. Where else is there for us to go? What would we do with ourselves?"

"We could go to the Druids. They take in people like me."

But he only shook his head as he crawled into bed, eyes drifting shut as he responded. "Patience and caution, that's all. There's no reason for us to…"

He was deep in slumber by the time she rose from her chair, her face streaked with tears as she hurried around the room gathering a few necessary possessions. The most precious one of all was cradled close to her breast as she slipped out into the night, sleeping peacefully in his warm nest of blankets as she made her way through the deserted streets and passed beyond the city gates.

No, she could have never done it for herself. But for her child's sake, there was no other choice.


	20. The Sins of the Father

#  **The Sins of the Father**

* * *

**Episode:** The Sins of the Father  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+  
 **Author's Note:** Loosely inspired by Arya from _Game of Thrones_.

* * *

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Her father insisted she was too young to watch anything so violent, that sword fighting was a nasty business, and that a sweet girl like herself would hate it anyway. Better to stay home and practice her sewing, perhaps, or go out and gather wildflowers if she could convince her brother to escort her beyond the city gates. After all, it wasn't safe for young girls to wander in the woods by themselves.

Silly man.

Flush with anticipation, she waited for the duel to begin, squeezing her brother's hand until he winced and pulled away with a rueful smile. "Breaking my fingers won't make it start any faster, you know."

But she wasn't listening, her breath coming in excited bursts as the combatants faced off in the field below. This wasn't the first time she'd come to watch, of course – she'd been sneaking down here for years, determined to witness every jousting tournament, melee, or one-on-one challenge that took place.

But this one was different, infinitely more exciting for a very important reason – Prince Arthur's opponent was a woman.

The girl had never known such envy, so much admiration and desperate longing, as she did while watching the fight that ensued, gasping in delight as the greatest warrior in the kingdom was put flat on his back in a matter of minutes. Beautiful yet deadly, graceful and strong… oh, what she wouldn't give to grow up to be just like Morgause!

"Amazing, wasn't it?" she said to her brother a few minutes later, still breathless with awe as they meandered through the streets. "I've never even seen a man disarm the prince that easily! Oh, can we please…?"

He grinned, opening his cloak to reveal the pair of swords that hung at his waist. "One step ahead of you, dear sister. Let's go."

They were almost to the city gates when they ran into their father, who gave them both an affectionate smile. "Good lad you are," he said kindly. "Not many boys your age who would sacrifice their entire afternoon just so a little girl could pick wildflowers. Keep her safe, all right?"

Disguising a chuckle as an awkward cough, her brother gave him a solemn nod.

"Let's go!" she demanded impatiently. "I want to find plenty of… forget-me-nots before nightfall."

Later, it was hard to explain why they'd returned without a flower in sight, filthy and bruised with her hair in a wild tumble and his face still sheened with sweat on a chilly autumn day. But their father accepted the flimsy excuse that finally came to them – thought they'd seen a wolf and panicked, running headlong through the trees before realizing it had been nothing more than one of the prince's hunting hounds. 

The flowers? Oh, she'd dropped them along the way. Such a shame… she'd just have to go back and pick more tomorrow.


	21. The Lady of the Lake

#  **The Lady of the Lake**

* * *

**Episode:** The Lady of the Lake  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

Traitor.

For a man who took his vows seriously, had obeyed every order without question for more than 20 years, it was a hard truth to swallow.

How he wished that someone else had been sent to check the passageways beneath the Citadel, simply so he might've been spared such a difficult choice. But of course, he'd gone himself, had even volunteered to do so, forever eager to prove himself a tireless defender of the kingdom he loved.

He hadn't been prepared for what he would find tucked away in an alcove, however, a small figure clad in rags that couldn't possibly be enough to keep her warm down here where he could see his own breath with every exhale. The girl was fast asleep, curled up on her side with traces of weeping painted in sharp relief upon her dirty cheeks, deep, even breathing punctuated by the occasional soft sob. She was young, beautiful, appearing so innocent in her slumber that it was impossible to imagine she could be guilty of any crime, least of all murder. But none of that was what ultimately commanded his silence.

No, it was the fact that she bore an uncanny resemblance to his own daughter, such a close reflection that as much as he struggled to do so, he couldn't seem to separate the two. And the thought of his beloved Anya ever finding herself in such a hopeless situation, hunted through the streets like a dog, was nothing short of intolerable.

Turning away, the guard swiped a hand across his eyes, as if that would be enough to wipe away the evidence of what he'd seen.

"You all right down there?"

He moved away from her before responding, careful not to disturb her fitful slumber.

"There's nothing here," he called back in a soft voice. "I'm coming back up."


	22. Sweet Dreams

#  **Sweet Dreams**

* * *

**Episode:** Sweet Dreams  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

The maidservant wasn't looking forward to the return of her mistress.

What a blissful week it had been, sleeping in until noon and only stopping by for a brief dusting of Lady Vivian's chambers before she'd had the entire afternoon to herself. Yes, it was a life she could have easily gotten used to, plenty of time for her own leisure and no rude behavior or nasty insults to tolerate each day.

All the same, she was well prepared when Vivian arrived. The lady's favorite supper was laid out, there was a hot bath waiting, and she'd even gone out of her way to replenish the expensive perfumes and cosmetics that littered the dressing table.

Of course, it wouldn't be enough – she'd long ago resigned herself to the fact that her mistress was impossible to please. The meat would be too tough, the water in the tub too hot or too cold. She'd be sternly reminded that Vivian preferred jasmine to the smell of roses as of late, or have her head bitten off because she'd laid out the wrong nightgown.

Already braced for the verbal barrage, her mouth fell open in shock as Lady Vivian practically floated into the chamber with a sweet smile on her lips and an exclamation of, "Oh, this looks _wonderful!_ "

Once the entire plate of food had been devoured with soft murmurs of approval, the bath had been taken without complaint, and the nightgown accepted with nary a word of protest, the maidservant was still struggling to figure out what might have been responsible for such a drastic change. 

But in the end, did it matter? The fact that it had happened at all was wonderful.

"Thank you," Vivian mumbled in a sweet, drowsy voice as she tucked her into bed. "You've always been so good to me."

No, 'wonderful' was an understatement. It was a bloody miracle.


	23. The Witch's Quickening

#  **The Witch's Quickening**

* * *

**Episode:** The Witch's Quickening  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

_Take the north door straight ahead. Keep going._

The scullery maid bolted upright in bed, casting a frantic glance around the interior of her tiny cottage before realizing that the voice was coming from inside her head. It wasn't the first time she'd heard it – more than a year before, the Druid boy's plaintive cries had echoed in her mind, pleading for help she didn't have the power to give.

_Keep going. Hurry!_

She'd thought she was going mad the last time, had tried everything she could think of to block it out. But the voice had persisted nonetheless, childish and terrified, and then filled with so much raw anguish that she'd wept for him when the older Druid – his father? – had been executed.

_Keep going. It's not much further now._

But he hadn't been calling for her, not really. There had been one name repeated many times: Emrys… Emrys… Help me, Emrys…

She'd never heard the name, not before the Druid boy had come to Camelot, and not a single time since. But the other person he'd acknowledged had been unmistakable, and it was obvious he'd been granted the help he'd needed so desperately; he was free, after all, and it was rumored among the servants that Morgana had been instrumental in his escape. Of course, that was no big revelation – everyone knew the king's ward didn't exactly approve of his harsh policies regarding the use of magic.

But the realization that Morgana must have had magic herself in order to hear the calls was… well, that was a miracle.

_Be careful. At the end of the corridor. Morgana's chamber is next._

The scullery maid would never be sure why the Druid boy had returned to the city at great risk to himself, nor what he might want from the woman he sought. But what she _would_ understand was that right there in the palace where she worked, a treacherous place where exposure would no doubt equal death, there was someone else hiding a secret just like her own.

And somehow, just knowing that made her feel a little less alone.


	24. The Fires of Idirsholas

#  **The Fires of Idirsholas**

* * *

**Episode:** The Fires of Idirsholas  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T  
 **Author's Note:** Written upon the assumption that certain things would be stronger than Morgause's enchantment.

* * *

She was anxious, just as she always was when the time came to give birth. But at least she was prepared, seeing no need to wake her husband when the first contraction shuddered through her. Oh yes, this was the early stage, the time for restless pacing or trying to find a position that was comfortable enough to allow her to rest a little as she waited for her ordeal to begin in truth.

Perhaps this time wouldn't be so bad? That's what she wanted to believe, having heard countless times that babies arrived more quickly with practice. Not true in her case, unfortunately… the second had been no less painful than the first, both labors leaving her in agony for more than a day before she'd managed to deliver. But maybe with her third…

Stripping off her nightgown and then settling herself in a kitchen chair, she held the hourglass clutched tightly in one fist, panting softly through the next wave of pain. That was where he found her when he awoke around midmorning, rushing out of the house with his trousers half unfastened… despite her insistence that there was no need to summon the midwife just yet.

Thankfully, the children were staying at her sister's house, but she could have done without her husband hovering over her, or the midwife probing between her thighs in a way that prompted her first scream of pain. The contractions were coming faster, harder, and all she wanted was a little space. So hot, crowded, stifling… if only they'd give her some damn room…

Almost as if she'd willed it to happen, her husband backed away, giving the excuse that he needed to lay down for a minute as he practically staggered over to the bed and collapsed. Following that, she watched in increasing consternation as the midwife dropped into a chair across the table, resting her head on her arms as she let out a soft snore.

Bewildered, she called out to them both and then shouted for them to wake up as she felt the change that meant it was time to start pushing. But they didn't stir, not even when she cried out again and again, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to make sense of something so peculiar in a mind that was already overwrought with pain and exhaustion. Why were they doing this to her? What was wrong with them? When the hell would they wake up? Were they sick? Was it…?

She let out a sharp gasp as she pushed herself to her feet, cradling her enormous belly while bracing one hand on the wall. The door… she had to make it across the room, to somehow reach someone who might be able to help. But the effort, a slow, painstaking process, was all for nothing – staring out into the street, all she saw were sleeping bodies, sprawled out across the ground or slumped heavily against the side of the neighboring shops and houses.

In the end, she was left to bring her child into the world by herself, crouching on the thick rug in front of the hearth as she sweated and strained and screamed for what felt like a lifetime. And then at long last, the babe slid out into her own waiting hands, the cord cut with the last bit of strength she possessed. A bit of cleaning up was all she could manage before she surrendered to a sudden wave of exhaustion, no longer able to keep her eyes open as the infant latched onto her breast.

That was how her husband found her when the enchantment was finally broken – fast asleep with a healthy baby girl cradled in her arms.


	25. The Last Dragonlord

#  **The Last Dragonlord**

* * *

**Episode:** The Last Dragonlord  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

The knight came back to consciousness with a grunt of confusion, struggling to orient himself with his surroundings. Blinking away the soot in his eyes, he frowned at the sight of the scorched grass, the crumpled bodies, and most of all, at the peculiar scene that was unfolding right in front of him.

Alone and undefended, Arthur's servant stood facing the massive dragon. No weapons, no armor… no chance in hell that he wouldn't be struck down by this creature who'd already demolished countless men who were actually trained in the art of combat, far better equipped to handle such a challenge.

Groaning softly, the knight attempted to rise, to come to the defense of the helpless servant. It didn't matter that he had little chance of succeeding either – it was his duty to protect the innocent, vows he'd sworn that were more important to him than his own safety, even his life. But he could hardly move. No, he was far too weak, legs trapped beneath something that seemed enormously heavy… he couldn't…

And then his head snapped up, eyes growing wide as a great and terrible voice filled the air, words that seemed to hold the power of the earth itself emerging from the scrawny servant. They were foreign to his ears, strange and guttural, but as he watched in amazement, the dragon seemed to understand, bowing his head in a gesture of submission.

"I am the last of my kind, Merlin," the creature said. It could talk… dear gods, it could talk. "Whatever wrongs I have done, do not make me responsible for the death of my noble breed."

Not only did it have the ability to speak, but it knew the servant by name. What…? Part of him wanted to believe this was some bizarre dream, but that was impossible. No, the pain radiating through his battered body was too strong, the odor of charred flesh sharp and acrid, far too real to dismiss as some trick of the imagination. Too much… he began to lose his tenuous grasp on consciousness, his head falling with a soft thud in the grass.

But he heard what followed nonetheless – Merlin commanding the dragon to leave and never return, threatening to kill him if he did. Most of all, he picked up on a single word that made him gasp in shock, just before the world faded to black.

_Warlock._


	26. The Tears of Uther Pendragon

#  **The Tears of Uther Pendragon**

* * *

**Episode:** The Tears of Uther Pendragon (Parts 1  & 2)  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+  
 **Author's Note:** Dedicated to Moonfox. The "Essetirian Oysters" are somewhat lacking in this one. ;)

* * *

No doubt about it – becoming a soldier had been the stupidest thing he'd ever done.

Oh, it had looked like a lot of fun when he'd been a boy, all fancy uniforms and shiny swords, swift running horses and grand speeches about bravery and honor. Fool that he was, he'd been only 12 years old when he'd insisted that his father find him a position as a squire, forgoing the perfectly respectable family business of leather tanning.

What he wouldn't give to be a tanner now, locked up safe in a workshop back in his peaceful village. But no, here he was, cowering in an alley in an unfamiliar city as the battle, his first, raged all around him. King Cenred was determined to conquer the city of Camelot; as such, he'd brought along seasoned soldiers and trainees alike, promising both victory and the spoils to be had thereafter in exchange for their service.

It had sounded good… so good that he'd been insane enough to be excited on the journey here. Not until the invasion had begun in truth had he realized he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake. But if he could just stay where he was until after the battle was over, perhaps no one would notice him. Maybe…

Red cloak billowing, the enemy soldier came charging at him as if from out of nowhere, letting out a mighty yell as his sword flashed through the air. Was that…? Oh gods, the warmth was creeping down his leg – not blood, but urine. Holy hell, he'd pissed himself in fright.

Of course, there was no time to think about the humiliation; with a squeak of alarm, he took off at a dead run, not stopping until he'd somehow found his way deep into the tunnels below the Citadel. Had he been a braver man, he could've returned to his commander, supplying crucial information that could have very well delivered a stunning victory for their side. But he wasn't, and so he stayed right where he was. It wasn't until nearly dawn, when the noises above had long since faded into silence, that he crept out of his hiding place and made his way back up to the street. Dead bodies everywhere. Blood and gore… gross!

But even that wasn't enough to deter him; he had a plan. It involved a bit of looting, but soon enough, he'd exchanged his Essetirian uniform for the clothing of an ordinary peasant. Even better was the handful of gold coins he'd scavenged – hey, the dead man didn't need any money, and he could always wash his hands after touching the body. Almost as an afterthought, he ducked back into the ravaged house and swiped a chunk of strong lye soap.

Two days later, he spent his pilfered coin on a small stall, along with the fresh fruits and vegetables that came along with it. Two weeks later, he had a home of his own, tiny, but certainly adequate for his needs. And by the time two months had passed, he'd made a comfortable life for himself in the enemy city.

The citizens of Camelot never suspected a thing.


	27. Goblin's Gold

#  **Goblin's Gold**

* * *

**Episode:** Goblin's Gold  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

"It's an outrage!" a beefy man with a sandy beard growled as he slammed his fist down on the table. "Five gold pieces! Maybe that don't mean much when the king himself pays your salary, but to us regular folk, it's a fortune! Five gold pieces, just for a simple treatment for stomach ailments? I tell you, the bottle wasn't any bigger than my thumb."

One of his companions, a lanky fellow with bright red hair and a profusion of freckles, nodded in agreement. "Just needed a little ointment for this cut of mine, and he says it's going to cost me six gold! When I didn't want to pay it, he says I better change my mind and be quick about it unless I fancy the idea of bleeding to death. Bleeding to death?! It's a surface wound!"

"Let me see that thing," the baker said, leaning over for a better look at the tiny scrape. "Bloody hell, that's nothing! Surprised you even thought you needed to see the physician at all."

The redhead shot him a glare. "I just wanted to be on the safe side, all right? You know, my own father died…"

Unable to help herself, the barmaid who'd been listening in on their conversation let out a bark of laughter. "Honey, your father took a dagger to the chest. That's got nothing to do with that puny little scratch on your arm."

"That isn't the point!" the first man interjected, tugging restlessly at his beard. "Point is that all of us have been getting ripped off, and it ain't right! I've had enough of this rich folk stealing from poor folk business, telling us bald-faced lies like we're too stupid to know the difference! That Court Physician's got no right…"

The baker frowned. "But Gaius has always been good to us in the past. When my children came down with that sickness of the lungs that was going around last year, he took care of them while charging no more than a couple silver to do it. Maybe he's had to raise his prices a little, but…"

"A little?! He's charging a fortune! I tell you, it's no better than robbery! Maybe you lot are content to let the king's lapdog run roughshod over you, but I'm not! And I tell you – I ain't the only one who feels that way. We're going to make him…"

"Rumors I've been hearing say he was enchanted," the barmaid said as she leaned over to refill their drinks. "Some sort of magical creature, something about…"

The bearded man let out a derisive snort. "Sorcery. That's what they always say when they start doing something that's just plain wrong. Magic was at fault! Well, I say 'horseshit'! Besides, even if that's true, he hasn't exactly been in a hurry to get down here and offer any of us a refund, has he? No, we're going to have to deal with this ourselves."

"I'm with you," the redhead said with a brief nod. "What are you planning?"

Two nights later, Gaius responded to a false summons that had been delivered to the palace, obviously perturbed to find himself in an abandoned storage building surrounded by a mob of disgruntled peasants. The bearded man stepped forward, towering over the elderly physician as he spoke in a menacing growl.

"We want our money back, old man. Every last copper."


	28. Gwaine

#  **Gwaine**

* * *

**Episode:** Gwaine  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

"I believe this belongs to you."

The pretty redhead spun around on her heel, blue eyes going wide as she saw the handsome man who was standing behind her. He was tall and lean with a strong profile, warm brown eyes, and rather luscious looking dark hair. And then she looked down at the flower he was holding out, a pathetic, slightly crumpled thing that was missing at least one of its petals. Well, what did that matter? It wasn't flowers she was interested in.

"Does it?" she said, her voice light and full of mischief. "How do you know?"

He bowed with a flourish. "Because I've been saving it for the most beautiful woman in Camelot."

She held her breath as he stepped forward, tucking the flower in her auburn curls. "Perfect," he proclaimed with a satisfied smile. "By the way, I'm Gwaine."

Smirking up at him, she shot back, "Good to know."

"And your name?"

She started to tell him and then changed her mind, leaning closer to press a kiss to his stubbled jaw instead. "Buy me a drink, and maybe you'll find out."

In the end, it took five drinks, half a dozen pickled eggs, and a lusty romp in the stables before she finally allowed Gwaine to discover that her name really _wasn't_ Princess Esmerelda.

He didn't seem to mind.


	29. The Crystal Cave

#  **The Crystal Cave**

* * *

**Episode:** The Crystal Cave  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

Now was the time to tell the king.

For years now, he'd known the Lady Morgana's secret. But as all guards were wont to do (at least those who valued their heads) he'd held his silence. He hadn't breathed so much as a word to anyone else, even though he'd witnessed Morgana using magic right there in the palace on more than one occasion. No, he hadn't even said anything when the king had conducted a year-long search for his beloved ward, sacrificing the lives of quite a few good men in the effort to locate a woman who would probably be executed if he knew the truth.

But the time for discretion was over. Morgana had murdered his brother.

Of course, he hadn't seen it happen, but what else was he supposed to believe when Alain had died by violent means, while she'd been skulking around the castle with a dagger at her hip and an expression of pure malevolence twisting her otherwise lovely features? Oh yes, he'd seen her only moments before the body had been discovered, though fool that he was, he'd discreetly looked the other way.

That was a regret he'd live with for the rest of his life; the best he could hope for now was that some small solace might be found in Alain's murderer receiving the justice she deserved. It was an enormous risk with little chance of success – he knew that even before he faced the king, describing everything he'd seen over the years and why he believed Morgana was to blame.

Not in the least bit surprising, he wasn't even given a chance to finish before he was dragged away in chains. But he couldn't be sorry… not even when he knew by the sound of hammering in the courtyard below that it was his own scaffold that was being constructed. Yes, he'd go to his death with dignity, resigned to the fact that he'd had no other choice.

The following morning, he stood on the platform before the waiting crowd, feeling a strange sort of relief as the rope was fitted around his neck. Was there really anything to fear anymore? After all, a swift death in the face of honesty was preferable to the lingering torture of perpetual silence.


	30. The Changeling

#  **The Changeling**

* * *

**Episode:** The Changeling  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. Her hair was an absolute mess, she walked around with a dimwitted expression on her face, and he was quite sure she'd been drooling a little when he and the other kitchen helpers had been serving dinner the night before. But she was the first girl who didn't intimidate him, and for that reason alone, he was half in love with her already.

He'd never imagined there could be someone out there it was just like him, clumsy and awkward, never knowing the right thing to say or do. Even just that morning, when he'd managed to stutter out an offer for a refill of cider, she'd been the one to knock over her goblet, muttering under her breath and blushing furiously as he'd cleaned away the mess with unaccustomed grace.

Of course, it also happened that Elena was a princess, newly betrothed to Arthur. Did the prince know how lucky he was? Probably not. But there was nothing to do but accept it, to admire her from a distance while admittedly feeling a little sorry for himself. Would he ever be fortunate enough to find a girl like her again, one he might be able to claim for himself?

In the end, his affections were short-lived, brought to a standstill by the elegant stranger who stood in Elena's place on the morning of the wedding. What had happened to her? Why the sudden change?

He spent all day brooding over it… at least until he entered the kitchens, startling a girl he'd never seen before. She was rather plain, a bit on the plump side with thin lips and sallow cheeks. But that ceased to matter when she knocked an entire tray of apple tarts off the table, those very same cheeks turning crimson in embarrassment.

With a kind smile and a few quiet words of reassurance, he helped her clean up the mess. Not that there was much point to it – an hour later, the new kitchen maid had managed to topple three more platters and burn several of the most simple dishes to a crisp. The cooks were furious – there was quite a lot of discussion as to whether or not she should be sacked, before it was decided that she'd be much better off seeing to the laundry detail.

But even though it seemed everyone in the palace was thoroughly fed up with her by the end of the day, there was one who remained utterly charmed. Perhaps there really was someone for everyone after all.


	31. The Castle of Fyrien

#  **The Castle of Fyrien**

* * *

**Episode:** The Castle of Fyrien  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

The soldier had never hated anyone as much as he hated Morgause.

Why was he even here? Well, he was loyal to his king. It didn't matter whether this was a stupid waste of time, legitimate business, or a folly of epic proportions. He'd stand by Cenred until the end, even if that meant following him to hell and back… which might very well be possible with the way things were going.

Absently, he rubbed his aching shoulder, which pained him much more within the damp, miserable recesses of the Castle of Fyrien than it ever did at home. The wound itself had been a souvenir from the siege upon Camelot nearly a year before, which had been the last time Morgause had lured Cenred into one of her nefarious schemes.

Coldhearted, manipulative bitch. Why couldn't the king see her for what she really was? Why was he so blind to the fact that she was using him, especially since she never troubled to hide her selfishness and greed? 

But of course, the soldier already knew the answer to that question… late nights with just the two of them locked away in the throne room, the double doors doing little to muffle the harsh grunts and breathy moans of pleasure. He would've never expected a man like Cenred to be taken in so easily, but then again, a beautiful, seductive woman who knew how to use her charms to their fullest advantage was nothing short of a force of nature.

And of course, like a a raging sea or a mighty tempest, Morgause threatened to overtake the kingdom of Essetir, leaving nothing but chaos and destruction in her wake. Only Cenred himself had the power to stop her now, but would he ever recognize the truth? Would he somehow find the strength to push her away before it was too late?

The soldier wanted to be optimistic, but as he watched his master stalk around the terrified young serving girl, hissing out threats while looking to Morgause for approval at every turn, it was impossible not to fear the worst. After all, it seemed the Cenred he'd known, neglectful sometimes but never outright cruel, was already lost.

Now there was nothing left to do but follow a stranger with a familiar face, waiting for one treacherous woman to decide exactly when and how they would meet their ultimate fate.


	32. The Eye of the Phoenix

#  **The Eye of the Phoenix**

* * *

**Episode:** The Eye of the Phoenix  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T  
 **Author's Note:** Because Grettir was too awesome to just stand around guarding a bridge all the time.

* * *

She smiled as Grettir pushed open the hide flap of the tiny hovel and stepped inside, prepared to ask the same question that had been on her lips each and every evening for the past five years.

"Did they arrive today?"

Of course, he would respond as he always did, his confidence never wavering as he said, "Tomorrow." 

Always tomorrow, for there was no lie in that. And as always, the love she felt for him would prevent her from asking if the event he'd been waiting for with such patient determination would happen the following morning… or if it was still a thousand tomorrows away.

But something was different tonight; he remained silent as he took off his coat and hung it on a peg by the door, never speaking a word while he slipped off his shoes and then crawled into bed beside her. He only smiled as if he knew all the secrets of the world, stretching out on his back with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"Grettir?"

As if he'd only just become aware of her presence, he turned on his side to face her, reaching out to stroke her soft golden curls. "Forgive me, my love. What did you say?"

She gave him a puzzled look. "I asked you if they arrived today. You didn't answer."

"Oh, right. Yes, they did."

"What?!" After half a decade of waiting, how could he say that with such an air of nonchalance? Ever since he'd had the vision, he'd revolved his entire life around the expectation of this event… and then to just shrug it off like it was nothing? And yet that was exactly what he was doing, completely preoccupied with untying the ribbons of her low-cut nightgown.

" _Grettir!_ "

The man had the audacity to look surprised as he glanced up at her. "Yes, my love?"

"How can you…?" she sputtered, even more at a loss for words as he began to caress her bare breasts. "After all this time, you just… like it's no big deal… just…"

"Well, I always knew it was going to happen. Pleased? I most certainly am. Surprised? Not in the least."

"I…" she trailed off, both flustered and increasingly aroused as a small, callused hand skimmed across her stomach. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

He flashed her a devilish smile in response. "Tomorrow."


	33. Love in the Time of Dragons

#  **Love in the Time of Dragons**

* * *

**Episode:** Love in the Time of Dragons  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

"Arrested? How? Why?" The woman stared up at her husband with an expression of consternation.

"She tried to kill the king."

"But that's impossible! I've never met anyone sweeter, more generous and goodhearted… Alice would never be capable of…"

Sinking down into a chair, he let out a heavy sigh, raking a hand through his thick salt and pepper hair. "I would've thought that myself, but the truth is that we've only met her once. People are not always what they seem."

She nodded mutely, then turned to the stove to check on the stew she was preparing for dinner. Yes, that was true… Alice had been kind enough to provide a remedy for her husband's injured shoulder, but they'd only spent a few minutes in her company before she'd been off to visit her next patient. Of course, from his perspective, it must seem strange that she was reacting so strongly to the arrest of a relative stranger.

"Well," she said mildly after a moment. "I hope they treat her gently. She's an old woman, after all. She doesn't deserve to be brutalized."

"Even if she's guilty?"

"Yes, even if she's guilty."

Following that, they ate in silence, for which she was immensely grateful. It gave her a chance to think, to remember herself as an enthusiastic young novice, practicing the arts of both healing and magic under the careful tutelage of her mentor. Back then, she had idolized Alice, wanting nothing more than to spent the rest of her days working at her side. But of course, the future she'd envisioned for herself had never come to pass, obliterated by a vengeful king and a hasty escape in the middle of the night.

After Alice had left, she'd never practiced magic again. It wasn't the laws which forbade it that kept her away, the need for secrecy, or even the threat of execution. No, losing any connection with the mentor she'd admired had been enough to change the course of her life forever.

Heartbreaking it might have been, though hardly surprising that Alice hadn't recognized her after so many years. Two decades of housekeeping and childbearing had taken their toll on her, a decidedly plump middle-aged woman standing in the place of the willowy girl she'd once been. In the end, that was for the best… her husband, who was in full agreement with the king's harsh policies regarding magic, knew nothing of the years where she'd embraced the very powers he despised. And she intended to keep it that way.

Well, he was certainly right about one thing – people weren't always what they seemed.


	34. Queen of Hearts

#  **Queen of Hearts**

* * *

**Episode:** Queen of Hearts  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

He was surrounded by idiots.

Dragoon… really? What kind of blind fool could take one look at the old man without realizing it was none other than Arthur's manservant in disguise?

Of course, it shouldn't have surprised him. How many years had it been since he'd realized that Merlin was in fact, a sorcerer? And how many times had he picked up on any number of supposed coincidences with no one else the wiser? It would have been amusing either way, but honestly, so much willful ignorance was downright hilarious when found in people who were forever on alert for even the slightest hint that magic was present in the kingdom. Innocent citizens were constantly under suspicion for the crime of sorcery, and all the while, it was happening right there in the palace on what seemed like a daily basis. Brilliant, truly.

Perhaps he should have said something. He was a knight, after all, sworn to uphold the law. And yet he continued to hold his silence for three reasons he found to be perfectly valid.

First, he genuinely liked Merlin and didn't want to see him come to any harm.

Second, the servant never seemed to use magic with any sort of ill intention. On the contrary, Merlin had saved all of their asses on numerous occasions, for which a little discretion was the least he deserved in return.

And the third reason, perhaps the most compelling of all, was that the knight was intrigued by the idea of finding out just how much Merlin could get away with before someone finally got around to figuring out his secret. 

By the looks of it, that wasn't going to be happening anytime soon.


	35. The Sorcerer's Shadow

#  **The Sorcerer's Shadow**

* * *

**Episode:** The Sorcerer's Shadow  
 **Category:** Slash  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

It felt as if he'd been waiting a lifetime when he finally heard the sound of footsteps coming up the path. He didn't need to look out the window to know who it was – the rhythm of Gilli's particular tread was intimately familiar, just like so many other things that defined the man who'd been his lover these past three years.

And yet in other ways, it was as if they were strangers, one content with the quiet life they'd shared while the other had been determined to prove himself to the world, forever in search of glory, triumph, recognition. There'd been no choice but to let Gilli go to pursue that dream, however much it had pained him to do so. The ambition itself might've been beyond his comprehension, but not the realization that to stand in the way of it would've been an exercise in futility.

Had Gilli found what he was looking for? The answer to that question was imminent as he heard the familiar sound of someone attempting to unlock the door – a bit of fumbling followed by a muttered curse. He smiled to himself; Gilli had more than his share of special talents, but the price of that was that he'd never quite learned how to perform a few of these ordinary tasks.

He proved that now, surrendering with a loud, shuddering sigh that was swiftly followed by a touch of magic. And then the door came open… slowly, almost tentatively…

"Hello?"

"I'm here."

Stepping forth from the shadows, he anxiously searched Gilli's face, surprised by the realization that the other man was doing the same in return. Yes, there was something different there… a sort of quiet acceptance that had risen to replace the almost feverish light in those eyes. But it wasn't anything sad or hopeless. No, there was something almost peaceful about Gilli's expression, a newfound certainty in himself and the world around him. Could it be…?

"I'm home," Gilli said abruptly, giving him a tentative smile.

"For good?"

"Yes… that is, if you want me to be."

There were any number of things that could've been voiced aloud in that moment, dozens of questions to ask and just as many reassurances that yes, to have Gilli here was the one thing, the _only_ thing, he truly wanted. And maybe one day soon, the time would be right to have that conversation. But for now, it seemed of little importance; everything that needed to be said was communicated in a fierce embrace, followed by a lingering kiss as he slid his hands beneath Gilli's tunic.

"Come to bed," he whispered against a pair of lips he'd missed even more than he'd realized.

Gilli shivered, pressing himself a little closer even as he said, "Maybe I should wash up first. I'm still filthy from the road, and…"

"I don't give a damn."


	36. The Coming of Arthur

#  **The Coming of Arthur**

* * *

**Episode:** The Coming of Arthur (Parts 1  & 2)  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T  
 **Author's Note:** The maidservant is a character who was briefly featured in another story of mine called "Beguiled."

* * *

"Come on, we have to go!"

The maidservant lifted her head, gazing at her companion with dull, lifeless eyes. "She killed him. She killed the king."

"You can't tell me you're surprised. She's been using him from the start, the evil witch, and he let her get away with it. Don't grieve for him – he brought it on himself."

Shaking her head, the maidservant stepped forward into the throne room with tears running down her face. "We can't just leave him this way."

"We can, and we must! Do you know what's going to happen when word gets out that the king is dead? This place will be sacked! Bandits, criminals… do you know what men like that will do to us? I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be raped tonight."

But the words fell on deaf ears as the maidservant crossed the room, blood drenching her skirt as she knelt beside the body of the fallen king. His face seemed to be sculpted in stone, forever frozen in an expression of horrified realization. Poor Cenred… for all his flaws, he'd genuinely loved the woman who'd betrayed him. He didn't deserve this, didn't deserve to…

"We can't bury him, you know," spoke the voice from behind, urgency replaced by bewilderment. But of course, the confusion was only to be expected. Nightly visits to Cenred's bedchamber had been a discreet affair, ending months before her companion had even been hired. Yes, the only man the other woman had ever seen had been under Morgause's thrall, oblivious to all else but her sinister influence.

But before that… the maidservant clasped his hand tightly in both of her own, swallowing a rush of pain.

"I know we can't bury him," she whispered brokenly. "I wish we had the time and the strength, but… just give me a moment alone with him, would you?"

"I don't see why…"

"No, you wouldn't. And I don't have it in me to explain. Please, just a few minutes. I'll join you shortly."

Her companion let out a heavy sigh, but did as she was asked, closing the double doors behind her with a soft thud.

Even as the maidservant knelt beside him, weeping openly now that they were alone, she knew her grief was out of proportion with what she'd meant to this man. After all, she'd been nothing more than a pretty face, a soft, feminine body to warm his bed at night. Despite that, however, he'd been good to her, going out of his way to give as much pleasure as he received, even holding her sometimes when all was said and done.

That was what she thought of when she hunched over to lay her head on his chest, so still and cold, a cruel mockery of a body that had once been filled with barely restrained power and restless energy. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine him that way again, this same chest heaving in the aftermath of a passionate coupling, heartbeat strong and steady beneath her cheek.

But it was only an illusion, chased away by the grim reality of absolute silence.

Leaning forward, she pressed a lingering kiss to lips that were pale and bloodless, reaching out to smooth his thick chestnut hair away from his forehead. And then the words came easily, soft and bittersweet, a truth she could've never allowed herself to utter if he'd been alive to hear it.

"Goodbye, Cenred. I love you."


	37. The Darkest Hour

#  **The Darkest Hour**

* * *

**Episode:** The Darkest Hour (Parts 1  & 2)  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

"When will it end?" 

She shouldn't have voiced the question aloud. No, there was no point to it, other than to serve as a cruel reminder of the sheer helplessness of their situation. Half a dozen heads turned in her direction, swiftly followed by reassuring smiles, but not before she recognized the truth in their eyes… the doubt, the fear, the awful realization that it might never end at all. Everything she felt was reflected back at her, as sharp and clear as the harvest moon above their heads.

"Soon," the Druid beside her promised, reaching over to pat her on the shoulder. "Have faith in Emrys. He will find a way."

Gazing up into the man's brown, weather creased face, she managed to nod in agreement, for all that she didn't feel it. "You're right. Of course you are."

"Here," spoke another voice, belonging to a much older Druid with a shock of startlingly white hair that fell well past his shoulders. "Have some of this; it'll settle your nerves."

Reluctantly, she accepted the skin, raising it to her lips and feeling the strong bite of alcohol as it slid down her throat. It did help in a way – she was a bit warmer now, and indeed, her trembling had subsided somewhat. But what she really wanted was a chance to be alone, to wander through the towering trees in search of the solace she needed in order to silence her troubled thoughts.

But of course, that was impossible. Even now, the hellish specters were out there, the distant noises of their piercing shrieks serving as a constant reminder as to why none of the Druids could risk moving more than a few paces away from the towering bonfire. No, a bit of restless fidgeting was the best she could do at the moment.

"Calm yourself, child," scolded an elderly woman with lively blue eyes and a huge, hooked nose. "Emrys will know what to do."

Unable to help herself, the girl let out an impatient sigh. She was sick to death of hearing about Emrys, the mysterious sorcerer in whom the Druids placed so much of their faith. He was supposed to make everything better for their kind, bring about a golden age where they could walk free in the sunlight, and yet what had he done? Nothing. The king was no longer in power and yet his son, the very same man who was supposedly destined to be the greatest ruler the world had ever known, still upheld the ban on magic and persecuted their kind wherever possible. Meanwhile, Emrys stood at his side and didn't do a thing to stop it. If he was really so powerful, then why didn't he…?

But her resentful musings came to an abrupt standstill just as the screeches in the distance did, replaced by absolute silence for several long heartbeats before the birds cautiously resumed their nighttime song. These were sounds that hadn't been heard in a week… a nightingale trilling out a beautiful melody, the soft scuffling of a small animal in the brush nearby. Could it be…?

"It's over," whispered the man beside her, his deep voice trembling with emotion. "It's really over."


	38. The Wicked Day

#  **The Wicked Day**

* * *

**Episode:** The Wicked Day  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+  
 **Author's Note:** This installment was cowritten with Ryne. Many thanks to her!

* * *

The news came by way of a stranger, a cloth merchant with whom she struck up a conversation at the market. She asked what was going on at home, just as she always did when there were visitors from Camelot. He tutted sadly in response as he informed her that King Uther was dead.

"Dead?" she repeated, staring at him in bewilderment as if he were speaking in a foreign tongue. Such an ironic thought at that moment, being as the other language she happened to speak was the one that was considered outlandish, frightening, forbidden.

"Indeed," he confirmed, his eyes full of sorrow. "Cut down by an assassin, though at least our good king had a go at him before he fell."

She didn't know what she said to him in the process of making a hasty exit; all she knew was that she had to get home. Her breath was coming in excited bursts as she ran through the streets, dodging people left and right before she finally managed to reach her door. 

"He's dead," she cried out as she rushed into the kitchen where her brother was sitting by the fire. "Uther. He's dead. He's dead!"

Of course, his reaction was much as hers had been – momentary confusion, followed by absolute shock. "What…? How can you be sure?"

She managed to explain, which wasn't an easy task since she was still panting heavily from her headlong flight. "Do you know what this means?" she demanded when she'd reached the end.

Her brother, always the cautious one, gave her a solemn look. "Don't get carried away, Sister. It might not mean anything at all."

"You think the merchant was lying?" she demanded.

"No, I'm not saying that. It's just... you remember what Prince Arthur was like. All the executions we went to, the raids we've been hearing about over the years? Do you really believe he'll be so quick to go against his father's teachings and embrace us?"

"Why must you always do that?"

"Do what?" He cast a lazy glance at the fire, willing it to burn brighter before returning his attention to her. "I'm just being realistic. I know what you're thinking – believe me, I'd love to return home, to see our friends and family again. But why get our hopes up when so many obstacles still stand in our way?"

"He could have changed!" she insisted. "It's been years, and you know what the Druids say."

"Yes, they say that Arthur's the Once and Future King," he said quietly. "But the Druids say a lot of things that have never come to pass. After all, where's Emrys? He's supposed to bring magic back to the land of Albion, but no one's heard a word about him. We're no closer to being free than we were when our parents died."

"Maybe this is what Emrys has been waiting for. Isn't it supposed to be his destiny to help Arthur become this great king? Why would he have put himself at risk by revealing himself while Uther was still alive? He probably… well, would it be so wrong to have a little faith? To hope for the best?"

Her brother let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, I just can't help thinking that we still have a long wait ahead of us before we can hope to see any change. I'd love to be more optimistic… but life has taught me not to put my faith in a Pendragon. They despise our kind, they…"

"Well," she interrupted, suddenly tired of the useless argument that was threatening to spoil her newfound euphoria. "Even if you're right, waiting is one thing we both happen to excel at."

Leaning down to brush a kiss across his cheek, she fairly flew into the other room and closed the door behind her. And then she sank down on her bed with a sigh of satisfaction, smiling to herself as she wondered when they might receive the good news.


	39. Aithusa

#  **Aithusa**

* * *

**Episode:** Aithusa  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

The boy tore through the trees, running as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him.

"Mother!" he cried excitedly as he burst through the door of the little cottage. "Mother! Father! I just saw… you wouldn't believe… _dragons!_ "

He didn't see the look of exasperated affection his parents exchanged over his head. No, he was too busy grabbing each of their hands, devoting every ounce of strength in his six-year-old body to the attempt to drag them outside.

"Whoa, slow down there!" his father protested, picking him up with ease and then settling him into a kitchen chair. "Why don't you tell us what this is about rather than dragging us off through the woods? It'll be time for dinner soon, and…"

"And you need to take a bath before it gets too late," his mother chimed in, reaching out to wipe a smudge from his freckled cheek. "Can't have you going to bed with wet hair in this sort of weather; expect it's going to snow before morning."

The boy shot them an impatient look. Silly grown-ups. Amazing things were happening just outside, and all they could think about was stuff that didn't matter – baths and bedtimes, and… well, the food would be nice, but it could wait. Nothing was more important than _dragons. ___

__Remembering that grown-ups preferred little boys to sit still and speak calmly – to be as boring as possible, in other words – he pasted on an expression of solemn maturity as he described what he'd seen. It wasn't easy – his hands were curling into fists, legs twitching under the table with the need to run as he talked about the giant dragon, the man with dark hair who had spoken to the massive creature, and most of all, the strange egg from which a baby dragon had emerged. He told them everything, wondering all the while why they did nothing but listen with indulgent smiles. Surely they couldn't believe he'd make something like this up?!_ _

__"Did you fall asleep in the woods again?" his father asked him gently as he trailed off into silence._ _

__"What?" The boy blinked in confusion. "How could I have seen dragons if I was asleep?"_ _

__"I think what your father is trying to suggest is that you were probably dreaming. Don't you remember that time you thought you saw a unicorn?"_ _

__"But I _did_ see a unicorn!" he insisted hotly. "It was all white, and it had a horn, and…"_ _

__"You must've been mistaken, darling," his mother said in a soothing voice. "Now let's have some dinner. You must be hungry."_ _

__Folding his arms across his chest, he shot her a stubborn glare. "Am not. I want to go back and see the dragons."_ _

__"Son, there are no dragons. It was just…"_ _

__"How do you know? You won't even go look!" And then, tired, hungry, and overwhelmed with helpless frustration, he burst into tears._ _

__Of course, he eventually got his way, if for no other reason than his refusal to stop crying until his parents relented. By then, there was no point to it… there was nothing more than an empty clearing waiting for them when they arrived. He couldn't even be surprised that the dragons weren't there anymore – such magnificent creatures surely had better things to do than sit around in the woods all night._ _

__"You see?" his father said gently. "It was only your imagination."_ _

__Despite himself, the boy smiled, realizing this was why grown-ups never believed in anything that really mattered. They wasted too much time talking, never bothering to go out and take a look until it was too late._ _

__Well, that was their loss._ _


	40. His Father's Son

#  **His Father's Son**

* * *

**Episode:** His Father's Son  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** M

* * *

"When?" she asked him, the word emerging as something soft and strangely hollow.

"Tomorrow," he responded, not troubling to disguise the excitement in his voice as he sat beside the fire, whetstone in one hand and sword in the other. "We leave at sunrise."

"I'm sure it's sharp enough by now," she said distractedly as he resumed the rhythmic scraping she usually found soothing, but suddenly couldn't tolerate for another instant. "You've been working on it for more than an hour."

"It can never be too sharp."

"Come to bed."

At first, he didn't even seem to hear her, but then she stepped into his line of vision as she unfastened her dress and eased it down over her shoulders, letting it fall in a pool of fabric at her feet. That captured his attention completely, just as she'd known it would; the sword was set aside without a second thought as he rose and took her in his arms, capturing her lips in a kiss that held a great deal of enthusiasm and little finesse.

So brash, so eager… the young bride couldn't help smiling up at her equally youthful husband as he conveniently forgot the preliminaries she'd taught him, burying himself inside her with a satisfied grunt. But then her amusement faded as he began to move, replaced by the fragile hope that on the morrow, he wouldn't be so rash and unthinking in the pursuit of the only other thing he hungered for with this kind of single-minded desperation.

"Slow down," she whispered, but it was already too late; the words had barely left her lips when she felt him lose what little control he had, pulsing inside her with a loud groan that was somehow both triumphant and apologetic at the same time.

And as she watched him ride through the city gates the following morning, flush with anticipation as he departed for his first battle, she could only hope that the unfortunate parallel that still haunted her mind would not come to pass.


	41. Servant of Two Masters

#  **Servant of Two Masters**

* * *

**Episode:** Servant of Two Masters  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** M (references to rough sexuality)

* * *

His mail and padded shirt would hide the abrasions on his wrists and back; unfortunately, the expression of shame on his face wouldn't be disguised so easily.

_What the hell have I done?_

The young knight stared down at the placid surface of the lake, taking a moment to curse at his own reflection before stripping off the rest of his clothing and plunging into the depths of the icy water. His teeth were chattering violently by the time he came up for air, but somehow, it was exactly what he needed. Seating himself in the shallows, he grabbed handfuls of sand, scrubbing at his skin until it was raw and pink… as if he could erase the fact that it had ever happened at all.

In the beginning, it hadn't even been his fault. One moment, he'd been wandering around in the Darkling Wood, and the next, he'd opened his eyes in total darkness with his hands bound above his head and not a stitch of clothing on his shivering body. Only dimly recalling being knocked off his horse somehow, there'd been some faint recollection of a woman's face hovering over him, followed by a foul tasting potion being forced down his throat. After that, nothing.

Hers was the face he'd seen when a single flame had suddenly flared to life, her eyes glinting at him cruelly as she'd walked in a slow circle around him. And of course, it hadn't been his fault that she'd been holding a whip, nor that she'd used it on him with gleeful abandon while taunting him with the promise that even now, she had an assassin deep within the heart of Camelot, poised to murder the king.

"In fact," she'd informed him, her voice low and seductive as she'd dragged her sharp fingernails across his chest. "By the time you return – if I decide to let you go, that is – your beloved king will already be dead."

He'd shaken his head in vehement denial, which had earned him a merry laugh in response. "I'm afraid there's no changing the inevitable," she'd practically purred, coming to stand in front of him as she'd reached for the ties of her gown. "But let's forget all that. Why don't we have a little fun?"

And still, he'd been blameless, shutting his eyes and cringing away as she'd begun to undress.

"To refuse a queen would be an insult beyond comprehension," she'd said, the injured tone she'd affected doing nothing to disguise the amusement in her voice. "But of course, I'm sure that isn't your intention. I'm sure you're not as…"

That was when he'd lost himself to a heady onslaught of sensations – her bare body suddenly pressed flush against his, sharp little teeth tugging at his earlobe as soft fingers had wrapped around his cock, coaxing him to hardness without a trace of resistance.

"… reluctant as you seem to be."

Everything that had happened after that had certainly been his fault. Shameful, contemptible… vows forsaken and loyalties forgotten in favor of no small amount of pain combined with exquisite pleasure. It had gone on for hours – she hadn't even needed to keep him bound anymore by the time they'd made it to the bed, where he'd betrayed everything he'd ever believed in favor of a bit of frantic thrusting between the thighs of his mortal enemy.

In short, he was a traitor… to king and country, but most of all, to himself.

He didn't know how he'd made it back outside, or why she'd allowed him to live. No, he only knew that he had to make it home, back to everything that was safe and familiar, everything that made sense in his world. Morgana be damned… his loyalty lay with Arthur and Camelot, and he'd spend the rest of his life making up for this one shameful secret he'd never confess to another living soul.

Pulling on his clothing with an expression of grim determination, the young knight forced the erotic memories from his mind, somehow managing to replace them with the faces of friends and loved ones as he set his feet toward the towering spires in the distance.


	42. The Secret Sharer

#  **The Secret Sharer**

* * *

**Episode:** The Secret Sharer  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

The court advisor had been working in the palace for a long damn time. So long, in fact, that he pretty much took it for granted that a hell of a lot of things just wouldn't make sense. And that was fine – he performed his duties, earning a tidy salary for his efforts, and was particularly good at remaining in the background. What did it matter that the Pendragons were a capricious lot, as inconsistent as they were paranoid? He was used to it by now, unaffected, sometimes even amused by their volatile behavior.

But what he couldn't understand was how someone like Gaius, who'd never possessed his own talent for remaining out of trouble, could still bring himself to serve a family who treated him so abysmally, had even nearly had him executed on more than one occasion. It seemed like masochism, plain and simple, evidenced by the fact that even now, the elderly physician was being interrogated under suspicion of sorcery.

Hadn't they been through this before? Not just once or twice, but… hell, he couldn't even remember how many times Gaius had been accused of using magic for one reason or another, harassed and sometimes even tortured in the process. What kind of self-defeating lunatic would allow himself to be treated that way?

And then something finally _did_ make sense – the news that Gaius had run away during the night. Silently, he applauded the old bastard… finally, _finally_ , he'd grown some balls, deciding he'd had enough of the abuse. About damn time!

Of course, that proved to be nothing more than wishful thinking… kidnapping, another round of torture, and Gaius was back in his chambers, given a brief respite to recover before it would no doubt happen all over again. And all the court advisor could do was shake his head in exasperation, not surprised by anything other than his own optimism.

Really, he should've known better by now.


	43. Lamia

#  **Lamia**

* * *

**Episode:** Lamia  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** M (references to nonconsensual sex)  
 **Author's Note:** Not everyone the Lamia destroys is an innocent victim.

* * *

He was stunned when she approached him, a slender, pale skinned young woman with dark hair and even darker eyes. She said nothing, but then again, she didn't need to – her intentions were clear in the way she pressed her body against his, soft, feminine hands sliding over his bare shoulders as her lips curved into a smile that wasn't half as innocent as it appeared to be.

Well, this was something different. No woman had ever given herself to him willingly, which was why he was obligated to resort to… _other_ means of persuasion. Even now, his most recent conquest was still lying on the ground just a few paces away, sobbing brokenly as she struggled in vain to cover herself with the tattered remnants of the dress he'd torn from her body.

"Get the hell out of here," he snapped at her impatiently. It wouldn't do to have her spoil the mood with her pathetic caterwauling… though interestingly enough, this strange, silent girl in his arms didn't seem the least bit perturbed by such unmistakable evidence of his brutality. _Hell,_ he reflected, the thought bringing him to full arousal all over again, _maybe she likes that sort of thing._

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Grabbing her roughly by the throat, he shoved her against the closest tree, growling some of his favorite threats in her ear as he ground himself against her.

"Like that, eh? I'll make you bleed before I'm done with you."

Oddly enough, the girl didn't cringe in response, didn't struggle to escape his clutches, or plead with him to stop. She _laughed_ – a harsh, hissing sound that chilled him to his bones. He took a step backward, staring at her uncertainly, caught offguard by the malicious gleam in a pair of eyes that suddenly seemed… not even human.

"Maybe not," he said brusquely. "Forgot I have some friends meeting me here, don't have time to…"

But she was walking toward him now, freezing him in place with that horrible stare, and for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to feel helpless… to be the prey rather than the predator. 

"Didn't you hear me, girl? Go on, get out of here!"

In the end, there was no point in trying to escape – he knew that somehow, even before she leaped forward and sank her fangs into him. And then there was nothing but pain, the terrible, burning poison scorching him ever so slowly from the inside as the echoes of his tortured screams reverberated through the forest. No pity, no mercy… no relief for a man who'd done nothing to deserve such things.

The Lamia usually made quick work about claiming her victims, making sure they suffered little in the process. But there were always special occasions when she delighted in taking her time.


	44. Lancelot Du Lac

#  **Lancelot Du Lac**

* * *

**Episode:** Lancelot Du Lac  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

"I brought you something."

The lovely courtier glanced up from her needlework, smiling sweetly at the man who was soon to be her husband. Tall, strong, and impossibly handsome, he cut a dashing figure in his red cloak, soft gray eyes shimmering much like the silver bracelet that was resting in his outstretched hand.

She rose to her feet, reaching out to trail a finger across the intricate design. "It's… it's beautiful! But where did you get it? You only just received your knighthood last month, and we should be saving up for the wedding."

"No need to worry, my love," he said with a gentle smile, taking her hand and sliding the circlet over her fingers. "It cost me nothing. I was on dungeon duty this morning, and I found it lying in one of the empty cells. I'm sorry, it probably isn't as romantic as purchasing…"

"No, I don't mind. But is it right for you to take it? Perhaps it should be given to the king, just in case it belongs to someone who might want it back."

A shadow flitted across his features. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Why not? Oh…" She raised her hand to her mouth. "This must have belonged to _her._ You're right – no use causing him any more pain than he's already been through, the poor man. But I still don't feel like I should…"

"Well, how about this? If Guinevere ever returns, you can always give it back to her. Let's just say you're holding on to it for safekeeping, yes?"

She gave him a reluctant smile. "All right."

It wasn't until after he left, summoned for an impromptu drill on the training grounds, that the courtier was struck by the most peculiar feeling. Her betrothed meant everything to her – indeed, he was the love of her life. But long ago when she'd been little more than a girl, she'd had feelings for another man… Sir Lancelot, who'd never known she existed. Being as his attentions had been completely diverted elsewhere, on duty, or so she'd assumed at the time, that infatuation had been a short-lived thing.

But now, it all came rushing back with an intensity she'd never known in the past. Her heart was suddenly filled by a whirl of emotions – love and desire, along with a deep, soul wrenching grief that brought her to her knees. She sobbed brokenly for what felt like hours, weeping for a relative stranger who she'd barely thought about in years other than a distant sadness when she'd heard about his death. Why was she reacting this way? But there was no room to think about it rationally, only to feel… and then to let herself be guided outside by some strange, invisible pull that led her through the streets and beyond the city gates, straight to a lake that softly shimmered beneath the afternoon sunlight.

She couldn't stop herself as she entered the water, knowing nothing beyond the need to be close to him, the wordless instinct that told her she must keep moving forward if she was to reach the only thing that mattered anymore. Lancelot… oh gods, Lancelot was dead, and she couldn't bear it… she had to be with him, even if it meant sacrificing her own life in the process…

But just as she submerged herself beneath the water, her lungs screaming for breath even as she forced herself to swim deeper, the bracelet slipped off, having been crafted for a wrist that was not quite as small and delicate as her own.

Shaken and bewildered, she fought her way back to the surface, weeping for another reason entirely as she trudged home in her sodden clothing. Had she really just tried to…? What on earth…?

And then with a gasp of shock, she understood the truth. The bracelet had been the real betrayer, not Guinevere herself.

Though she never mentioned the strange incident to her soon-to-be husband, she reported it to Lord Agravaine the following day, comforted by the reassurance that he'd handle the rest.


	45. A Herald of the New Age

#  **A Herald of the New Age**

* * *

**Episode:** A Herald of the New Age  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

He came to the shrine three times a year to honor the ones who'd fallen.

Other Druids had frequently accompanied him at first, though these days, he made his pilgrimages alone. He didn't blame the others for moving on with their lives; on the contrary, he'd been in complete agreement with Iseldir when the older (and admittedly wiser) man had counseled the need to surrender the past in order to embrace the future.

The problem was that he didn't know how to let it go.

He'd lost everything on that awful day. Having departed from the camp early that morning on a hunting excursion, he'd returned to find fire, destruction, chaos, the survivors stumbling around with haunted eyes as they'd tended to the bodies of their fallen brethren. But nothing had been worse than what he'd discovered just a few paces into the forest. The body, a slender figure with a wealth of bright copper curls, had been lying there deathly still, her frantic flight having been brought to an abrupt halt by the trio of arrows embedded in her back. Resting on her side, her body had been curved protectively around the tiny bundle that was still nestled in her arms.

As he'd rushed forward with a ragged cry of denial on his lips, he'd had every reason to believe he'd lost his infant son right along with the lovely young wife who'd given him such a precious gift. Both so still… so lifeless… and blood, so much blood. Before long, he'd been covered with it himself, falling to his knees and breaking off the arrow shafts with savage jerks before pulling them both into his arms. Heaving with violent sobs, he'd rocked them back and forth for what had seemed like hours, driving the other Druids away with a snarl of half-mad fury whenever they'd dared to approach.

He might've died right there beside them, overwhelmed by the temptation to plunge his dagger deep into his chest, freeing himself from the pain and the grief and the awful emptiness of a world in which everything he'd ever lived for no longer existed. But then he'd felt it – a tiny flutter of movement. With a soft gasp, he'd lifted his head to find the baby gazing back at him through bewildered eyes, too stunned to speak as the stillness was broken by a pitiful wail.

And then he'd known he had to live, whether he wished to do so or not. She would've never forgiven him for leaving their son behind.

Prying the infant from her lifeless arms had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, a fresh onslaught of tears streaming down his face upon the realization that neither of them would ever rest his head against her comforting breast again. But he'd managed it somehow… just as he'd managed to find a woman who'd still been nursing her own child who'd had milk to spare for the motherless boy. Since then, he'd managed any number of things, making it through those first excruciating weeks, the empty months, and then the endless years that had followed. He'd raised a son who was strong and healthy, even reasonably happy, despite having grown up with a father who faced each day with little more than grim determination.

Now more than ever, the man wanted to let it go. He wanted to know what it was to feel emotions like hope and joy again, to remember what it was to love beyond the detached sense of pride and affection he felt for his child. He wanted to _live_ , not merely exist as a hollow shell of everything he'd once been. But how?

That was why he returned to the shrine again and again, looking for the answer to that very question. Of course, he never received the solace he needed, only a heavy, pervasive silence, a few hours to grieve in the presence of unseen ghosts. What was he expecting? He couldn't bring her back, couldn't reverse the awful tragedies that had occurred that day. After a while, he even recognized the futility of visiting this place, and yet somehow, he couldn't stop himself from making the journey. He was waiting… waiting for something he couldn't begin to put a name to, something that probably didn't exist. 

But still, he waited.

And then at long last, he found it, an overwhelming sense of peace granted to him through the tearful apology of a stranger. Well secluded in a thicket of hawthorn, he listened as the king expressed his remorse, followed by a haunting echo of all the victims who lay silent in their earthly graves because of this man's terrible folly.

"I forgive you."

Indeed, many restless spirits found the closure they'd been searching for on that fateful night, comforted by the promise that such an atrocity would never happen again. But not all of those spirits belonged to the dead.


	46. The Hunter's Heart

#  **The Hunter's Heart**

* * *

**Episode:** The Hunter's Heart  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

"Will that be all, my lady?"

Princess Mithian glanced up from the dressing table with a sweet smile. "Yes, you've done a wonderful job. Thank you… you may go."

The maidservant closed the door softly, then strutted through the corridors with an expression of smug satisfaction plastered across her face. Yes, now that the usurper Guinevere had also proven to be a harlot, her own place within the hierarchy of servants had greatly improved. She was no longer relegated to the laundry detail or kitchen work as she'd been for so many years. Oh no… she was a proper lady's maid at long last, just as she should've been in the first place.

Guinevere… the grudge had started on the day they'd both shown up to interview for a position as the Lady Morgana's maidservant. Back then, little more than a girl with soft golden pigtails and freckles on her cheeks, she'd been so confident, so absolutely certain the job would be hers. But then that insufferable bitch had swooped in and stolen the position right from under her nose.

All the same, perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad if she'd stopped at that. But no! Soon enough, Guinevere had been everywhere – taking care of honored guests, serving the royal family at meals, even helping the Court Physician with any number of tasks, despite the fact that he had a perfectly good apprentice to do such things. Ingratiating to a fault, with her sickly sweet smiles and simpering eyes, Guinevere had bewitched them all, even sinking her claws into Prince Arthur… presumptuous enough to think she might actually have a chance of becoming queen.

The maidservant snickered to herself as she made her way down the palace steps. In the end, Guinevere had shown her true colors, and as far as _she_ was concerned, Camelot was well rid of such a self-serving, manipulative little strumpet. Guinevere wasn't worthy to clean the mud off of Arthur's boots, let alone marry him.

Princess Mithian, on the other hand? Graceful and elegant, virtuous and kind… she was a woman who'd been born to be queen, not some grasping little upstart who didn't know the first thing about true nobility.

Oh yes, and if everything worked out as it seemed it would, Mithian, Queen of Camelot, would have just one person in mind when it came time to choose the maid who would serve her for the rest of her life. Meanwhile, what would Guinevere be doing? Shoveling pig shit in some miserable little village, no doubt, which was exactly what she deserved.

"I win," the maidservant whispered to herself, wearing a triumphant grin as she blew out the candle and slipped into bed a few minutes later. "And it's about damn time."


	47. The Sword in the Stone

#  **The Sword in the Stone**

* * *

**Episode:** The Sword in the Stone (Parts 1  & 2)  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

Though he was bound by oath to stand beside his brethren, there was one particular Southron who quickly realized it had been a catastrophic mistake to agree to serve under a woman like Morgana Pendragon. True, she was a powerful sorceress with a legitimate claim to the throne of Camelot, but she was also… well, _stupid_.

That was made abundantly clear when she decided to start pitting her own guards against a man who soon proved himself to be a fighter without equal. Day after day, Sir Gwaine plowed through his opponents as if knocking over pieces on a chessboard, and rather than taking the hint and preserving her precious resources, Morgana treated it like a game, continuing to increase the stakes as the bodies piled up all around them.

What was wrong with her? Even now, King Arthur was out there somewhere, still free to regroup and make a bid to reclaim the kingdom. And yet here she was, throwing away not only ordinary foot soldiers, but some of the best lieutenants she had to offer. And all for what? Amusement? Revenge? Purely out of spite?

Soon enough, the day came when Sir Gwaine abandoned any pretense of nonchalance, set aside his charming grins and carefree manner. Something had obviously snapped inside him, no doubt brought on by nearly a week of near starvation and the raw, increasingly desperate will to survive. The result was terrifying, his lean, half naked body a blur of motion as he struck out with animalistic savagery. It wasn't his opponents he was fighting, but the much deeper and likely futile determination to triumph over his own helplessness.

And that was the same day the Southron heard his own name called, feeling his skepticism melt away in the face of sheer terror as he stepped forward to meet his doom.


	48. Arthur's Bane

#  **Arthur's Bane**

* * *

**Episode:** Arthur's Bane (Parts 1  & 2)  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** M (rough sexuality)

* * *

He had every reason to hate her.

Morgana. Evil. Treacherous. Bloodthirsty. Cruel.

She was the reason his father was dead, cut down by her immortal army five years before. And then his brother had fallen a couple years after… not even a soldier himself, only a merchant, cruelly slaughtered by her damnable host of Southrons. Indeed, it was Morgana who'd been responsible for his decision to become a knight, and she'd been the bane of his existence ever since.

The first time he was summoned, a temporary reprieve from his backbreaking labors beneath the Fortress of Ismere, his refusal was absolute. Never. It didn't matter that she was spread out across the bed without a stitch of clothing to cover her pale, luscious curves. No, he cared nothing for rose tipped breasts, sweetly rounded and undeniably appealing, nor did he allow for more than the most fleeting glance of the soft thatch of hair between her thighs. Damn the witch. Lovely she might be, but that was nothing more than an illusion… after all, it was always the most beautiful blossoms that contained the deadliest poison.

"Take off your clothes."

He shook his head emphatically. "No."

In response, her lips curved into a smile. "Noble Knights of Camelot… each and every one of you foolish enough to believe that a simple refusal will stop me from getting what I want. I repeat – take off your clothes."

"Never."

She deliberately parted her thighs, smirking up at him as she did so. "That's exactly what Sir Gwaine said last night."

"Go ahead and kill me if you must, but I will _not_ …" he trailed off with a muttered curse, struggling to ignore the traitorous heat of arousal that was flooding through his body.

"Gwaine said that, too, yet somehow ended up having me three times before sunrise. He's a strong one – impressively so. Good stamina, lots of enthusiasm. What do you think about that?"

"I… I'm sure Sir Gwaine had his reasons," he muttered, finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything beyond the vision of her soft hands skimming across her body. Her breasts… hips and stomach… her thighs, and… oh gods…

"Yes," she agreed with an air of mock thoughtfulness, pausing to let out a soft whimper as she stroked herself with tantalizingly slow fingers. "All men have their reasons. Fortunately, I'm patient enough for you to figure out what your own might be."

No more than five minutes later, he had Morgana on her hands and knees, pounding into her furiously with a rapid succession of savage, almost animalistic grunts. Gripping her by the hips, he dug his fingers into her tender flesh, hard enough to leave bruises in his wake. She loved every minute of it, encouraging his brutality with throaty moans and soft cries of pleasure… not that he gave a damn. No, the only thing driving him in this frenzied act was the illusion of power, the fleeting belief that finally, _finally_ , she was being punished for her crimes. So much tragedy, so much suffering and needless loss of life. And more than anything, so much helplessness endured by himself and his companions, forced to slave away in the bowels of a fortress hundreds of leagues from home, uncertain that they'd ever see the faces of their loved ones again.

Grabbing a fistful of soft black curls, he jerked her head back and sank his teeth into her throat. In the end, it was the taste of her blood that pushed him over the edge, her gasp of pain every bit as sweet as the powerful climax that flooded through his body.

Yes, she'd certainly been right about one thing – every man had his reasons.


	49. The Death Song of Uther Pendragon

#  **The Death Song of Uther Pendragon**

* * *

have **Episode:** The Death Song of Uther Pendragon  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

"I wish I could grieve for him," the knight said, his voice tentative and strangely hollow in the candlelit chamber. "He was the one who gave me my knighthood, you know, the king I served faithfully for five years before Arthur took power."

Surprised, his wife propped herself up on one elbow, gazing down at his wistful expression. It was something he'd never acknowledged out loud, this time of year only ever marked by a quiet sort of melancholy. In the past, she'd always assumed this _was_ his way of mourning for his fallen leader, but it seemed that wasn't the case. 

Laying a comforting hand on his chest, she remained silent, hoping he'd continue.

For several long moments, there was only the sound of deep, steady breathing. She might've thought he'd fallen asleep were it not for the eyes that remained open, soft gray orbs fixed on the ceiling above their heads. And then finally, he said, "The truth is, I've never been sorry. Not even on the day he died. I wish I could be… for Arthur's sake if for no other reason, but I… I can't help thinking it was the best thing to ever happen to this kingdom."

Only a knight could've felt so much guilt when confessing something that most of Camelot's citizens would've undoubtedly agreed with. King Uther had been a tyrant, a harsh and unforgiving leader who'd caused a great deal of suffering throughout the course of his reign. And of course, who knew that better than the men who'd served him? But then this was the price of fealty. Once a man had sworn his oaths, it was impossible for him to find fault with the leader he followed without it weighing heavily on his conscience. It didn't matter how much truth lay behind his criticisms, only that they existed at all when a lifetime of training and careful conditioning insisted that they should not.

"Uther was a bastard," she said flatly, not surprised in the least when he flinched in response. "If even his most loyal knights cannot grieve for him, the fault lies with him, not with you. Surely you cannot be the only one who feels this way."

His expression was filled with both hope and skepticism as he turned to face her. "Do you really believe that? You don't… you don't think any less of me for…?"

"Of course not, my love. I've never known a man to be more brave, more loyal, more honorable than you."

But he was already shaking his head, which was also to be expected. Above all things, knights were taught humility… it was much easier to command a man's unquestioning allegiance when he was taught to take pride in his leader, never in himself.

She wanted to tell him how ridiculous that was, to insist that he was a far better man than any king he could've possibly served. But of course, he'd never believe her, would shrink away from the very idea of it. Sometimes she despised the knighthood for that, hated that the entirety of his self-worth hinged on how well he was able to fulfill those silly vows, how much he was willing to sacrifice for the kingdom he served.

But as soon as she began to think that way, she couldn't help feeling guilty on his behalf, which was immediately followed by a stunning realization. She'd sworn her own vows, after all, promising to love this man for exactly who he was, not whatever she wished he could be.

"I understand how you feel," she told him softly, and she meant it.


	50. Another's Sorrow

#  **Another's Sorrow**

* * *

**Episode:** Another's Sorrow  
 **Category:** Het  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

"Are you all right, Sir Leon?"

The knight didn't seem to hear the question, staring off into the distance as he raked a hand through his honey colored curls. The maidservant looked at him uncertainly, then took a step closer, laying a tentative hand on his arm.

"Sir Leon?"

"What?" Startled, he whipped his head around with an expression of momentary confusion. "Oh, my apologies. What did you say?"

She frowned, studying him more closely. In all the years she'd worked in the palace, Sir Leon had seemed like a pillar of strength, giving every appearance of being unperturbed under even the most dire circumstances. She'd watched him ride out to face mortal peril countless times, always with his head held high and those soft hazel eyes filled with unwavering certainty.

Under the circumstances, it was strange, even downright frightening, to see him this way. He was trembling ever so slightly, worrying his lower lip with his teeth… _fidgeting?_ This man had confronted immortal armies, monstrous beasts, and deadly sorcerers with unwavering composure. What on earth could have happened to cause such a state of anxiety?

Meanwhile, he was still waiting for her response.

"I just asked if you were all right. Can I get you anything?"

He managed a small, self-conscious smile as he patted the hand that was still resting on his arm. "I'm fine, thank you. I could do with a drink though, if it wouldn't trouble you too much."

"Of course. What would you like?"

"Doesn't matter," he said distractedly, his focus shifting to the closed door in front of him. "Just… something strong."

With a brief nod, she hurried away, perturbed by the request. Sir Leon had never been much of a drinker; if he indulged at all, it was usually no more than a small cup of wine or perhaps a bit of watered cider during meals. The other knights, particularly Gwaine, often teased him for it, though she personally admired his restraint.

"Here you go," she announced a few minutes later, placing a large tankard of ale in his hands. With a murmur of thanks, he raised it to his lips and took several long swallows, eyes still fixed on the door of the guest chamber. She lingered there beside him, for no other reason than she didn't feel right about leaving him alone in such an obvious state of distress. Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind the company, flashing her the occasional distracted smile as he waited for… well, whatever it was that was responsible for his anxious vigil.

And then at long last, the door opened. Sir Leon's body went rigid as the elderly physician shuffled out into the hall, followed by Arthur's manservant.

"Sir Leon?" Gaius frowned, squinting up at him through faded blue eyes. "What are you still doing here?"

The maidservant could scarcely believe what she was seeing when the knight actually _blushed_. "I… that is, I was waiting to pass word along to the king."

"Oh, well Merlin could've taken care of that, but since you're here, you can go ahead and tell Arthur that Princess Mithian is already much improved and will make a full recovery."

The knight gave Gaius a polite nod, waiting until the pair of men had departed before letting out a deep sigh of relief. For the briefest instant, he slumped against the wall as the tension drained from his body, and then he was off, hurrying toward the king's chamber to pass along the good news.

With a knowing grin, the maidservant watched his retreating back as she took it upon herself to finish the last of his ale. No crisis then, no imminent catastrophe to worry about. Indeed, it seemed the cause of his uncharacteristic distress was much more simple than that.

Sir Leon was in love.


	51. The Disir

#  **The Disir**

* * *

**Episode:** The Disir  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

Her heart was thudding like a blacksmith's hammer as she slipped through the palace corridors, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts as she realized she didn't have the faintest clue where she was going. But then by instinct, or perhaps out of sheer dumb luck, she looked up to see the sign that pointed to the physician's quarters.

Emrys was away with the king and the Court Physician was out – she'd seen him herself, looking exhausted and harried as he'd rushed around tending to a small outbreak of sweating sickness in the lower town. Of course, none of the victims were truly ill; she'd made sure they'd only display a few of the most benign symptoms, with no risk to their health or safety. They'd be fully recovered within the hour.

Precious little time, but it would have to be enough. The little boy she'd loved like a brother was a man grown now, suffering from a terrible wound that would surely kill him without the intervention of magic. The Sight had shown her that much, though how the injury had been inflicted, she did not know… nor could she begin to imagine why Emrys had done nothing to help him.

She sucked in a sharp breath as she approached the bed, surprised at how innocent and helpless Mordred looked as he lay there unconscious. Surely Emrys didn't believe that nonsense about Mordred being destined to kill Arthur? Rubbish. Not only had rumors spread far and wide as to how much the young knight loved his king, how he served him faithfully at every turn, she'd known Mordred since they'd been children. There was no hatred in his heart, no wish to cause harm unless he was given no other choice. No, she simply refused to believe he'd ever do something like that… not without good reason.

Taking his hand, ice cold and clammy, she held it to her breast as she whispered the healing words. Her magic was powerful, unusually so, but she wasn't certain it was working until his skin began to grow warmer, the slightest bit of color creeping back into his pallid face. He let out a soft moan, as if he were in pain, but then at long last, his body relaxed. His breathing became more steady then, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips as his sorcery induced unconsciousness transformed into a deep, restful sleep.

How much she wanted to stay there with him, to be at his side when he awoke so she might be reunited with the cherished friend she hadn't seen in nearly a decade. But of course, that wasn't possible. Even if King Arthur wasn't quite the tyrant his father had been, she had a feeling that he still wouldn't take too kindly to an unknown Druid lurking about the palace.

And so she leaned over Mordred, pressing a gentle kiss to both cheeks and then his forehead before rising to her feet. "Rest well, my friend," she said with a wistful sigh. "I hope we meet again someday."


	52. The Dark Tower

#  **The Dark Tower**

* * *

**Episode:** The Dark Tower  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K

* * *

The atmosphere around Camelot always seemed more relaxed when Arthur and his best knights were away. True, the city was still well protected, but the ordinary guards and soldiers simply didn't maintain the constant vigilance one was forced to live with under normal circumstances.

Indeed, the young man would've never dared to use magic within Camelot's walls if the king had been in residence. But today… gods, he was so tired. Having been up since well before dawn unloading wagon after wagon of supplies, his strong, lanky muscles were aching with exhaustion. Was it really so bad? There was no one else around… not a single soul to witness the flash of gold in his eyes, no listening ears to hear the softly uttered incantation as it fell from his lips.

He smile to himself as the bags of grain and sacks of vegetables floated through the air and into the storage house, lost to the sweet magic thrumming through his veins. Soon enough, he was so caught up in the spell, something that felt more natural to him than breathing, that he didn't even notice he was no longer alone.

It was only when the final wagon was empty that he happened to glance behind him, gasping in horror as he recognized the man who was standing there.

Sir Mordred was gazing back at him, ice blue eyes seeming to pierce him right to his soul. The other man's expression displayed no trace of shock, not even a hint of outrage, but that was hardly relevant. A Knight of Camelot, sworn to uphold the law? Oh, he was going to die, no question about it. Burned at the stake, beheaded, hanged? Or maybe Sir Mordred wouldn't even bother with any of that, choosing to cut him down right where he stood.

"Please, I… I didn't mean any harm," the young man sputtered out, too distraught to notice the tears as they began to flow freely down his cheeks. "I should've never used it, it's just that I was tired, and… oh, that's no excuse. Please, sir, I don't want to die. My mother needs me, my sisters…"

The knight held up a hand to stop him. "You know the penalty for sorcery."

"Yes, I'm so sorry. It was stupid, foolish…"

"See that it doesn't happen again."

The young man nodded vigorously, hardly able to believe his good fortune. "It won't, I promise. Thank you, sir. Thank you!"

Mordred turned to walk away but then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "It won't always be like this," he said softly, giving him a sad smile. "One day, we'll be free."


	53. A Lesson in Vengeance

#  **A Lesson in Vengeance**

* * *

**Episode:** A Lesson in Vengeance  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K  
 **Author's Note:** I throw a lot of hate at Elyan, so I thought it might be nice to do something different for a change.

* * *

The young trainee watched from a distance as Sir Elyan was laid to rest, unashamed of the tears that were streaming down his face. The knight had died honorably, as was to be expected, sacrificing his life in the protection of his sister the queen.

He'd assumed that Guinevere would linger when the others started to leave, but she was one of the first to go, striding away with a curiously bland expression on her face. Strange… though he supposed it wasn't his right to question her lack of emotion. Maybe that was simply what queens did, feeling obligated to maintain their dignity in public while grieving behind closed doors.

Yes, that must be it.

When he was finally alone, he approached the shore of the lake, holding four white flowers in his hand. Perhaps it was a silly thing, but it had made sense to bring one in tribute for each month he'd been lucky enough to be acquainted with Sir Elyan. And for each, there was a memory he released to the wind with a sigh of bittersweet gratitude.

The first flower floated away upon the recollection of the noble knight visiting the blacksmith's forge, informing the awestruck youth that his own father had once owned it.

"But… but you're a knight! I thought all of you were…"

Elyan had shaken his head with a gentle smile. "Thanks to King Arthur, every man has the chance to earn a knighthood, as long as he proves himself worthy."

Releasing the second flower, he blushed a little as he remembered that it had taken him another month to work up the nerve to approach the knight as he'd been practicing on the training grounds.

"Sir Elyan? How would a man prove himself worthy?"

"Well, you have to be a skilled fighter. That's important. But more than that, your loyalty must lie with King Arthur. You must be willing to give life and limb in service to the kingdom of Camelot."

The third flower followed, along with the memory of those first few weeks of training alongside one of the finest knights Camelot had ever known. It had been an enormous honor, one that had earned Elyan constant and effusive gratitude, until with a soft chuckle, he'd informed the younger man that he was driving him to distraction.

"How am I doing?"

"Well, you're a little rough around the edges, but you handle your weapon with a surprising amount of skill."

"Do you think I'll ever be good enough to try out for the knighthood?"

"I think that with determination and hard work, you can do anything you want to do."

He was weeping again as the final flower fell into the water, remembering Elyan's promise that they'd start the next level of training when he returned from the pilgrimage to his father's grave. But of course, that hadn't happened. The queen had been kidnapped, and then…

"How much longer do you think it will take me?" he'd asked at their final session.

Elyan had given him a companionable pat on the shoulder. "Not long now. I'd say a few more months if you keep up with the hours you been putting in each day. Don't worry, you'll make a fine knight. Camelot will be lucky to have you."

Smiling wistfully as he watched the flowers drift away, the trainee was so caught up in his memories that he didn't hear the soft sound of footsteps from behind. It was only at the sound of a gently cleared throat that he whirled around with a sharp gasp.

"Am I disturbing you?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" he stuttered out, staring up at the larger man with anxious eyes. "That is… I was just…"

"You're the boy Elyan has been training these past couple months, aren't you?"

"I… Yes, I am. Forgive me, I know I shouldn't be down here. I didn't know him as well as the rest of you, and…"

"If he meant something to you, you have every right to be here."

"Thank you," he said after a moment, relieved that the other man didn't seem the least bit offended by his presence. "I… I'm sorry for your loss."

"And I'm sorry for yours."

He'd just started to turn away when he was halted by a massive hand on his shoulder. "Listen, I know it won't be the same," the knight said in a rush. "But if you still need someone to help you with your training, I'd be glad to make myself available."

"Are you sure?! Oh, that would be wonderful, Sir…?"

"Forget about the Sir – just call me Percival. Tomorrow morning, 9 AM sharp?"

The trainee flashed him a brilliant grin. "Thank you, S… Percival. I'll be there!"


	54. The Hollow Queen

#  **The Hollow Queen**

* * *

**Episode:** The Hollow Queen  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** T

* * *

_Did I do the right thing?_

It was a question the soldier had asked himself countless times since he'd helped the sorceress and her dragon escape Sarrum's clutches. It had been a terrible, treasonous act, one for which he'd suffer tremendously if his secret were ever discovered. But in the end, it didn't matter – he'd had no choice. 

It hadn't been Morgana's cries that had driven him to madness night after night. No, it had been Aithusa herself, the pitiful, broken wails of an innocent creature who couldn't possibly have understood why she was being subjected to such a cruel fate. She'd touched his heart, finding the one vulnerability that still existed for a man who'd long since abandoned any pretense of mercy where his enemies were concerned. Magical creature or not, he hadn't been able to hate the dragon, hadn't been able to convince himself that she deserved to be punished for what she was… or even for the fact that her allegiance lay with a despicable priestess he was sworn to destroy at all costs.

And so he'd released them both, one with a great deal of relief… and the other with the understanding that Aithusa would never find her way to freedom without her mistress at her side.

_But did I do the right thing?_

For the first time, he found something of an answer to that question. It was there in the horrified expression King Arthur quickly disguised as nonchalance as Sarrum described Morgana's captivity with no small amount of relish. Yes, it was there in Queen Guinevere's abrupt leavetaking, clearly so disturbed that she couldn't even stand to hear about how much the dragon had suffered.

But most of all, the answer was within himself, faint reminders of a younger man who'd once despised cruelty, believing in honor and compassion above all things. Despite all the atrocities he'd seen and sometimes even participated in over the years, he still had a merciful heart underneath it all, a truth he might have never known if not for Aithusa.

And with that thought, his lips curved into a bittersweet smile. Perhaps it wasn't too late after all. 

Of course, there was no leaving his master's service, nor could he hope to disobey the commands he was given without paying for it with a great deal of agony, and in the end, his life. But to finally have proof that underneath it all, he was still his own man?

_Yes, I did the right thing._


	55. With All My Heart

#  **With All My Heart**

* * *

**Episode:** With All My Heart  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+  
 **Author's Note:** Every outlandish rumor has to start somewhere.

* * *

Having served as a guard in the palace for more than two decades, he'd seen more than his share of peculiar things. There had been love spells and strange enchantments, nefarious plots and secret liaisons… and of course, who could forget the time when the former king had become besotted with a troll?

Indeed, it seemed as if nothing could shock him anymore… not even if Arthur Pendragon himself had suddenly sprouted floppy ears and started braying like a jackass.

And so he didn't bat an eyelash when the Court Physician hurried past pushing a wheelbarrow, with King Arthur's manservant following close behind with a furtive expression on his face. But that was before he noticed the limp hand peeking out from beneath the sheets, immediately recognizing the unique hue of the tawny skin and the jeweled rings on the slender fingers.

What in the hell…? No, if some tragedy had befallen the queen – a mortal illness, perhaps a fatal injury – she would've been laid out in state in the Council Chamber, not snuck out of the palace in the dead of night. Why were they being so secretive, going to such great lengths to make sure no one saw the body?

Thunderstruck, he stared after them, letting out a sharp gasp as the realization hit him full force. _Dear gods, the king murdered his wife!_

Too shocked to worry about trifles such as the need for discretion, he rushed off to tell the other guards.


	56. The Kindness of Strangers

#  **The Kindness of Strangers**

* * *

**Episode:** The Kindness of Strangers  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

"He's so dreamy. Brave, strong, handsome, romantic, powerful… what other man could compete with him? And to think he married someone just like us! Oh, I wish…"

The kitchen maid rolled her eyes at her companion as she passed her a platter of chicken that needed seasoning. "How long have you been working here?"

"Um, three weeks? No, a little less than that."

There was a distinct snort from the other side of the room; they both glanced over as one of the cooks tried to disguise her amusement in a fit of coughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Listen," the kitchen maid said, brushing a lock of thick auburn hair out of her eyes. "King Arthur's a good man, certainly better than his father was. He's done a lot of good for this kingdom, and we're all grateful for that, aren't we?"

Her comments were met by murmurs of agreement from around the kitchen.

"But…"

"But what?" the new girl cut her off with a bewildered expression. "You're acting like there's something wrong with him."

"Never said that. Just suggesting that he might not be quite the romantic hero you think he is. Not a bad sort, to be sure, but he didn't step out of the pages of a fairytale either. He's…"

"Perfect."

The comment, spoken with starry eyes and a breathless whisper, was met by a chorus of laughter.

"Oh, sure," the kitchen maid said with a mischievous grin. "If you like a man who snores, is maddeningly arrogant more often than not, and can't lift a finger without his manservant around to help him do it, then sure, he's a dream."

"Well, he's a king," the girl protested, looking offended on his behalf. "Of course he needs servants, he's got a lot of responsibilities on his shoulders, and…"

"Think what you like, girl," one of the other cooks interrupted. "But I'm happy to have a man who'll bring me flowers himself rather than sending a servant out to do it."

"Yeah," the woman next to her agreed. "Mine might not be too big on writing love letters, but if he ever does, at least I'll know he didn't force someone else to do it."

"Oh, come on. King Arthur would never…"

The oldest cook turned around then, with what could only be described as a devilish gleam in her eyes. "Yeah, my old man sure as hell isn't perfect, but at least I don't have him inviting his friends into our bedroom all the time."

Horrified, the new girl raised a hand to her mouth. "You don't mean…?"

"No, no," the cook said hastily. "At least, not that I know of. I'm just saying that the queen and king don't exactly have a lot of privacy with that servant of his popping in and out all the time. Maybe she doesn't mind so much, but…"

"It can't be that bad."

"Yeah? From what I hear, they're out having a romantic picnic right now. Just the three of them."

"That's… that's not very romantic at all."

"No, it isn't. Take my advice, girl – find yourself a man that's yours for the taking. He might not be rich and powerful with a fancy title, but at least you'll have him all to yourself. No interests of the kingdom to compete with, no guards and servants hovering around when you want a bit of privacy. Queen Guinevere might be lucky in some ways, but in others, she'll never have what's still possible for you."

"I never thought of it that way."

The kitchen maid smiled as she glanced at the new girl's face, glad to see that the dreamy expression was gone. Not that there was any harm in a nice fantasy, of course, but she wasn't doing herself any favors in believing the man of her dreams was beyond her reach. The truth was that Arthur Pendragon was no different than any other man, with just as many flaws and virtues as his common counterparts.


	57. The Drawing of the Dark

#  **The Drawing of the Dark**

* * *

**Episode:** The Drawing of the Dark  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

The seer jerked awake with a gasp, glancing around her hut with fearful eyes. But of course, it was absurd to look for danger here – imminent destruction lay beyond these humble walls, a terrible clashing of wills that promised a world of misery if she didn't find a way to prevent it.

His image was still fresh in her mind, seared across her brain with all the clarity of a radiant sun against a cloudless summer sky. Mordred. Former Knight of Camelot – once a sweet young Druid boy, now a formidable sorcerer hellbent on vengeance. Tears were streaming down his face, prompted by love and grief and fury as he charged through the trees. And yet his heart bore no resemblance to the woman he sought, hers forever blackened and twisted by hatred. No, there was goodness in him even now, a chance he might yet find his way to redemption rather than a heartbreaking end.

Yes, that would be the greatest tragedy of all if her awful visions came to pass. Young Mordred wasn't motivated by evil, only by the need for comfort, desperate to find some small relief from the soul crushing grief that left no room for moderation or rational thought. It was coiling around him like strangling vines at the bottom of a lake, sorrow dragging him down into the mud and filth that waited to trap him in the recesses below. And much like a drowning man would meet his end in those cloudy depths, Morgana would steal the light from his eyes and the breath from his lungs, her hold over him inescapable, and ultimately… fatal.

Soon enough, she was slipping through the trees like a phantom, hoping against hope that she might cross paths with him before it was too late. What would she say? Would he listen? Small chance of that – it was the seer's gift to envision the most likely outcome before it happened, and her curse that she was so rarely able to intervene to any effect. But the goodness she'd seen in those eyes, nothing more than fragments of a dream, spurred her onward nonetheless.

Please… oh, please…

And then she saw him in the distance, his face like a thundercloud as he tramped through the autumn leaves.

"Mordred!" she called, her voice high-pitched and frantic. " _Mordred!_ "

He glanced back over his shoulder with an expression full of anger, but… yes, there was a trace of curiosity there, too. Maybe? Oh, please…

But he didn't even have the chance to take a step in her direction before the shadows came upon him, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him away to face their mistress. And then there was nothing to do but weep, to grieve for a man who still lived and breathed, and yet in all the ways that mattered, was already dead.


	58. The Diamond of the Day

#  **The Diamond of the Day**

* * *

**Episode:** The Diamond of the Day (Parts 1  & 2)  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Rating/Warnings:** K+

* * *

Did all soldiers know ahead of time that a particular battle was to be their final stand?

Perhaps not. But there was one who did, a grizzled, heavily scarred veteran of countless fights who was determined to leave the world without any regrets. Never had he been so openly affectionate with his children, nor had he ever made love to his wife with more tenderness and vigor than he did in the days leading up to the Battle of Camlann. Indeed, even to his brothers in arms, he was like a different man, laughing and joking, making the most of every moment as if it were his last. Of course, he knew what they did not – that time was close at hand.

Having stood at his commander's side for years beyond counting, fighting dragons and any number of other terrifying mystical beasts, coming face to face with deadly sorcerers and even immortal armies, he'd always emerged on the other side relatively unscathed.

But not today. No, not today.

In the end, it was a spear that did him in, driven through his chest by a Saxon with cold, lifeless eyes and a hideous scar. Though the pain was excruciating as he lay sprawled on his back, panting and shivering in the blood soaked mud, it was a relief to realize his death was to be a merciful one. Mere minutes left to suffer; his consciousness was already fading, eyes drifting closed, the sounds of battle reduced to a low, indistinguishable buzz in his ears.

But he didn't require the power of sight anymore, had no need to hear the grunts and shouts of the men who were still locked in mortal combat all around him. No, everything that mattered was in his heart and mind; all he needed was his own voice to put it into words.

"F… For the love of Camelot," was what emerged from his trembling lips, the faintest whisper exhaled on a final breath. And thus, one of the greatest soldiers Camelot had ever known died without a trace of regret, his face forever frozen in an expression of quiet satisfaction.

_For the love of Camelot._

~*~  
 **THE END**  
~*~


End file.
